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THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


THE 

PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


BY 

IRVING BACHELLER 

AUTHOR OF 

THE LIGHT IN THE CLEARING, 
A MAN FOR THE AGES, Etc. 



NEw; YOR K 

GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Made in the United States of America 











Copyright, 1920 

By American National Red Cross 


Copyright, 1921 
By The Ridgway Company 


Copyright, 1920, 1923 
By Irving Bacheller 



Printed in the United States of America 


FEB 19 *23 

©C1A69S324 

Xo f 




THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


CHAPTER ONE 


Which Introduces the Shepherd op 

the Birds 

HE day that Henry Smix met and em- 



braced Gasoline Power and went up 
Main Street hand in hand with it is not 
yet forgotten. It was a hasty marriage, 
so to speak, and the results of it were 
truly deplorable. Their little journey pro¬ 
duced an effect on the nerves and the re¬ 
mote future history of Bingville. They 
rushed at a group of citizens who were 
watching them, scattered it hither and 
thither, broke down a section of Mrs. 
Risley’s picket fence and ran over a small 
boy. At the end of their brief misalli- 


1 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


ance, Gasoline Power seemed to express 
its opinion of Mr. Smix by burling him 
against a telegraph pole and running wild 
in the park until it cooled its passion in 
the fountain pool. In the language of 
Hiram Blenkinsop, the place was badly 
“smixed up.” Yet Mr. Smix was the ob¬ 
ject of unmerited criticism. He was like 
many other men in that quiet village— 
slow, deliberate, harmless and good- 
natured. The action of his intellect was 
not at all like that of a gasoline engine. 
Between the swiftness of the one and the 
slowness of the other, there was a wide 
zone full of possibilities. The engine had 
accomplished many things while Mr. 
Smix’s intellect was getting ready to begin 
to act. 

In speaking of this adventure, Hiram 
Blenkinsop made a wise remark: “My 
married life learnt me one thing,” said 
he. “If you are thinkin* of hitchin’ up a 
wild horse with a tame one, be careful that 

2 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the tame one is the stoutest or it will do 
him no good.” 

The event had its tragic side and what¬ 
ever Hiram Blenkinsop and other citizens 
of questionable taste may have said of it, 
the historian has no intention of treating 
it lightly. Mr. Smix and his neighbor’s 
fence could be repaired but not the small 
boy—Robert Emmet Moran, six years old, 
the son of the Widow Moran who took in 
washing. He was in the nature of a sacri¬ 
fice to the new god. He became a be¬ 
loved cripple, known as the Shepherd of 
the Birds and altogether the most cheerful 
person in the village. His world was a 
little room on the second floor of his 
mother’s cottage overlooking the big 
flower garden of Judge Crooker — his 
father having been the gardener and 
coachman of the Judge. There were in 
this room an old pine bureau, a four post 
bedstead, an armchair by the window, a 
small round nickel clock, that sat on the 

3 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

bureau, a rubber tree and a very talkative 
little old tin soldier of the name of Bloggs 
who stood erect on a shelf with a gun in 
his hand and was always looking out of the 
the window. The day of the tin soldier’s 
arrival the boy had named him Mr. Bloggs 
and discovered his unusual qualities of 
mind and heart. He was a wise old 
soldier, it would seem, for he had some 
sort of answer for each of the many ques¬ 
tions of Bob Moran. Indeed, as Bob knew, 
he had seen and suffered much, having 
traveled to Europe and back with the 
Judge’s family and been sunk for a year 
in a frog pond and been dropped in a jug 
of molasses, but through it all had kept his 
look of inextinguishable courage. The 
lonely lad talked, now and then, with the 
round, nickel clock or the rubber-tree or 
the pine bureau, but mostly gave his confi¬ 
dence to the wise and genial Mr. Bloggs. 
When the spring arrived the garden, with 
its birds and flowers, became a source of 

4 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


joy and companionship for the little lad. 
Sitting by the open window, he used to talk 
to Pat Crowley, who was getting the ground 
ready for sowing. Later the slow proces¬ 
sion of the flowers passed under the boy’s 
window and greeted him with its fragrance 
and color. 

But his most intimate friends were the 
birds. Robins, in the elm tree just beyond 
the window^, woke him every summer 
morning. When he made his way to the 
casement, with the aid of two ropes which 
spanned his room, they came to him light¬ 
ing on his wrists and hands and clamor¬ 
ing for the seeds and crumbs which he 
was wont to feed them. Indeed, little Bob 
Moran soon learned the pretty lingo of 
every feathered tribe that camped in the 
garden. He could sound the pan pipe of 
the robin, the fairy flute of the oriole, the 
noisy guitar of the bobolink and the little 
piccolo of the song sparrow. Many of 
these dear friends of his came into the 

5 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


room and explored the rubber tree and 
sang in its branches. A colony of barn 
swallows lived under the eaves of the old 
weathered shed on the far side of the gar¬ 
den. There were many windows, each with a 
saucy head looking out of it. Suddenly half 
a dozen of these merry people would rush 
into the air and fill it with their frolic. 
They were like a lot of laughing schoolboys 
skating over invisible hills and hollows. 

With a pair of field-glasses, which Mrs. 
Crooker had loaned to him, Bob Moran 
had learned the rfest habits of the whole 
summer colony in that wonderful garden. 
All day he sat by the open window with 
his work, an air gun at his side. The 
robins would shout a warning to Bob when 
a cat strolled into that little paradise. 
Then he would drop his brushes, seize his 
gun and presently its missile w T ould go 
whizzing through the air, straight against 
the side of the cat, who, feeling the sting 
of it, would bound through the flower beds 

6 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


and leap over the fence to avoid further 
punishment. Boh had also made an elec¬ 
tric search-light out of his father’s old 
hunting jack and, when those red-breasted 
policemen sounded their alarm at night, 
he was out of bed in a jiffy and sweeping 
the tree tops with a broom of light, the 
jack on his forehead. If he discovered a 
pair of eyes, the stinging missiles flew to¬ 
ward them in the light stream until the 
intruder was dislodged. Indeed, he was 
like a shepherd of old, keeping the wolves 
from his flock. It was the parish priest who 
first called him the Shepherd of the Birds. 

Just opposite his window was the stub 
of an old pine partly covered with Vir¬ 
ginia creeper. Near the top of it was a 
round hole and beyond it a small cavern 
which held the nest of a pair of flickers. 
Sometimes the female sat with her gray 
head protruding from this tiny oriel win¬ 
dow of hers looking across at Bob. Pat 
Crowley was in the habit of ealling this 

7 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


garden “Moran City,’’ wherein the stub 
was known as Woodpecker Tower and the 
flower bordered path as Fifth Avenue 
while the widow’s cottage was always re¬ 
ferred to as City Hall and the weathered 
shed as the tenement district. 

What a theater of unpremeditated art 
was this beautiful, big garden of the Judge! 
There were those who felt sorry for Bob 
Moran but his life was fuller and happier 
than theirs. It is doubtful if any of the 
world’s travelers saw more of its beauty 
than he. 

He had sugared the window-sill so that 
he always had company—bees and wasps 
and butterflies. The latter had interested 
him since the Judge had called them 
“stray thoughts of God.” Their white, 
yellow and blue wings were always flash¬ 
ing in the warm sunlit spaces of the 
garden. He loved the chorus of an August 
night and often sat by his window listen- 

8 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


ing to the songs of the tree crickets and 
katydids and seeing the innumerable fire¬ 
fly lanterns flashing among the flowers. 

His work was painting scenes in the 
garden, especially bird tricks and atti¬ 
tudes. For this, he was indebted to Susan 
Baker, who had given him paints and 
brushes and taught him how to use them, 
and to an unusual aptitude for drawing. 

One day Mrs. Baker brought her daugh¬ 
ter Pauline with her—a pretty blue-eyed 
girl with curly blonde hair, four years 
older than Bob, who was thirteen when his 
painting began. The Shepherd looked at 
her with an exclamation of delight; until 
then he had never seen a beautiful young 

maiden. Homely, ill-clad daughters of 
the working folk had come to his room 
with field flowers now and then, but no 
one like Pauline. He felt her hair and 
looked wistfully into her face and said 
that she was like pink and white and yel¬ 
low roses. She was a discovery—a new 

9 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


kind of human being. Often he thought 
of her as he sat looking out of the window 
and often he dreamed of her at night. 

The little Shepherd of the Birds was not 
quite a boy. He was a spirit untouched 
by any evil thought, unbroken to lures and 
thorny ways. He still had the heart of 
childhood and saw only the beauty of the 
world. He was like the flowers and birds 
of the garden, strangely fair and winsome, 
with silken, dark hair curling about his 
brows. He had large, clear, brown eyes, 
a mouth delicate as a girl’s and teeth very 
white and shapely. The Bakers had lifted 
the boundaries of his life and extended his 
vision. He found a new joy in studying 
flower forms and in imitating their colots 
on canvas. 

Now, indeed, there was not a happier 
lad in the village than this young prisoner 
in one of the two upper bedrooms in the 
small cottage of the V 7 idow Moran. True, 
he had moments of longing for his lost 

10 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


freedom when he heard the shouts of the 
boys in the street and their feet hurrying 
by on the sidewalk. The steadfast and 
courageous Mr. Bloggs had said: ‘ * I guess 
we have just as much fun as they do, after 
all. Look at them roses.’’ 

One evening, as his mother sat reading 
an old love tale to the boy, he stopped her. 

“Mother,” he said, “I love Pauline. 
Do you think it would be all right for me 
to tell her?” 

“Never a word,” said the good woman. 
“Ye see it’s this way, my little son, ye’re 
like a priest an’ it’s not the right thing 
for a priest.” 

“I don’t want to be a priest,” said he 
impatiently. 

“Tut, tut, my laddie boy! It’s for 
God to say an’ for us to obey,” she 
answered. 

When the widow had gone to her room 
for the night and Bob was thinking it over, 
Mr. Bloggs remarked that in his opinion 

11 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


they should keep up their courage for 
it was a very grand thing to be a priest 
after all. 

• Winters he spent deep in books out of 
Judge Crooker’s library and tending his 
potted plants and painting them and the 
thick blanket of snow in the garden. 
Among the happiest moments of his life 
were those that followed his mother’s re¬ 
turn from the post-office with The Bing- 
ville Sentinel. Then, as the widow was 
wont to say, he was like a dog with a bone. 
To him, Bingville was like Rome in the 
ancient world or London in the British 
Empire. All roads led to Bingville. The 
Sentinel was in the nature of a habit. One 
issue was like unto another—as like as 
“two chaws off the same plug of tobaccer,” 
a citizen had once said. Its editor per¬ 
formed his jokes with a wink and a nudge 
as if he were saying, “I will now touch 
the light guitar.” Anything important in 

12 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the Sentinel would have been as misplaced 
as a cannon in a meeting-house. Every 
week it caught the toy balloons of gossip, 
the thistledown events which were float¬ 
ing in the still air of Bingville. The 
Sentinel was a dissipation as enjoyable 
and as inexplicable as tea. It contained 
portraits of leading citizens, accounts of 
sundry goings and comings, and teas and 
parties and student frolics. 

To the little Shepherd, Bingville was the 
capital of the world and Mr. J. Patterson 
Bing, the first citizen of Bingville, who em¬ 
ployed eleven hundred men and had four 
automobiles, was a gigantic figure whose 
shadow stretched across the earth. There 
were two people much in his thoughts and 
dreams and conversation—Pauline Baker 
and J. Patterson Bing. Often there were 
articles in the Sentinel regarding the great 
enterprises of Mr. Bing and the social 
successes of the Bing family in the 
metropolis. These he read with hungry 

13 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


interest. His favorite heroes were George 
Washington, St. Francis and J« Patterson 
Bing. As between the three he would, 
secretly, have voted for Mr. Bing. Indeed, 
he and his friends and intimates—Mr. 
Bloggs and the rubber tree and the little 
pine bureau and the round nickel clock— 
had all voted for Mr. Bing. But he had 
never seen the great man. 

Mr. Bing sent Mrs. Moran a check every 
Christmas and, now and then, some little 
gift to Bob, but his charities were strictly 
impersonal. He used to say that while he 
was glad to help the poor and the sick, 
he hadn’t time to call on them. Once, 
Mrs. Bing promised the widow that she 
and her husband would go to see Bob on 
Christmas Hay. The little Shepherd asked 
his mother to hang his best pictures on 
the walls and to decorate them with sprigs 
of cedar. He put on his starched shirt 
and collar and silk tie and a new black 
coat which his mother had given him. 

14 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

The Christmas bells never rang so mer¬ 
rily. 

The great white bird in the Congrega¬ 
tional Church tower—that being Bob’s 
thought of it—flew out across the valley 
with its tidings of good will. 

To the little Shepherd it seemed to say: 
i ‘ Bing—Bing—Bing—Bing—Bing—Bing! 
Com-ing, Com-ing, Com-ing!!” 

Many of the friends of his mother— 
mostly poor folk of the parish who worked 
in the mill—came with simple gifts and 
happy greetings. There were those among 
them who thought it a blessing to look 
upon the sweet face of Bob and to hear 
his merry laughter over some playful bit 
of gossip and Judge Crooker said that 
they were quite right about it. Mr. and 
Mrs. J. Patterson Bing were never to feel 
this blessing. The Shepherd of the Birds 
waited in vain for them that Christmas 
Day. Mrs. Bing sent a letter of kindly 

15 





THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


greeting and a twenty-dollar gold piece 
and explained that her husband was not 
feeling “quite up to the mark,” which was 
true. 

“Pm not going,” he said decisively, 
when Mrs. Bing brought the matter up as 
he was smoking in the library an hour or 
so after dinner. “No cripples and misery 
in mine at present, thank you! I wouldn’t 
get over it for a week. Just send them 
our best wishes and a twenty-dollar gold 
piece. ’ ’ 

There were tears in the Shepherd’s eyes 
when his mother helped him into his night 
clothes that evening. 

“I hate that twenty-dollar gold piece!” 
he exclaimed. 

“Laddie boy! Why should ye be sayin’ 
that?” 

The shiny piece of metal was lying on 
the window-sill. She took it in her hand. 

“It’s as cold as a snow-bank!” she ex¬ 
claimed. 


16 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I don’t want to touch it! I’m shiver¬ 
ing now,” said the Shepherd. 4 ‘Put it 
away in the drawer. It makes me sick. 
It cheated me out of seeing Mr. Bing.” 


CHAPTER TWO 


The Founding of the Phyllistines 
NE little word largely accounted for 



A/ the success of J. Patterson Bing. It 
was the word “no.” It saved him in mo¬ 
ments which would have been full of peril 
for other men. He had never made a bad 
investment because he knew how and 
when to say “no.” It fell from his lips 
so sharply and decisively that he lost little 
time in the consideration of doubtful en¬ 
terprises. Sometimes it fell heavily and 
left a wound, for which Mr. Bing thought 
himself in no way responsible. There was 
really a lot of good-will in him. He didn’t 
mean to hurt any one. 

“Time is a thing of great value and 
what’s the use of wasting it in idle 
palaver?” he used to say. 


18 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


One day, Hiram Blenkinsop, who was 
just recovering from a spree, met Mr. Bing 
at the corner of Main and School Streets 
and asked him for the loan of a dollar. 

“No sir!” said Mr. J. Patterson Bing, 
and the words sounded like two whacks 
of a hammer on a nail. ‘ ‘No sir he re¬ 
peated, the second whack being now the 
more emphatic. “I don’t lend money to 
people who make a bad use of it.” 

“Can you give me work?” asked the 
unfortunate drunkard. 

“No! But if you were a hired girl, I’d 
consider the matter.” 

Some people who overheard the words 
laughed loudly. Poor Blenkinsop made no 
reply but he considered the words an in¬ 
sult to his manhood in spite of the fact 
that he hadn’t any manhood to speak of. 
At least, there was not enough of it to 
stand up and be insulted—that is sure. 
After that he was always racking his 
brain for something mean to say about 

19 


THE PRODXGALtVILLAGE 

J. Patterson Bing. Bing was a cold¬ 
blooded fish. Bing was a scrimper and a 
grinder. If the truth were known about 
Bing he wouldn’t be holding his head so 
high. Judas Iscariot and J. Patterson Bing, 
were off the same bush. These were some 
of the things that Blenkinsop scattered 
abroad and they were, to say the least of 
them, extremely unjust. Mr. Bing’s inno¬ 
cent remark touching Mr. Blenkinsop’s 
misfortune in not being a hired girl, arose 
naturally out of social conditions in the 
village. Furthermore, it is quite likely 
that every one in Bingville, including those 
impersonal creatures known as Law and 
Order, would have been much happier if 
some magician could have turned Mr. 
Blenkinsop into a hired girl and have made 
him a life member of “the Dish Water 
Aristocracy,” as Judge Crooker was wont 
to call it. 

The community of Bingville was noted 
for its simplicity and good sense. Ser- 

20 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

vants were unknown in this village of 
three thousand people. It had lawyers and 
doctors and professors and merchants— 
some of whom were deservedly well known 
—and J. Patterson Bing, the owner of the 
pulp mill, celebrated for his riches; but 
one could almost say that its most sought 
for and popular folk were its hired girls. 
They were few and sniffy. They exercised 
care and discretion in the choice of their 
employers. They regulated the diet of the 
said employers and the frequency and 
quality of their entertainments. If it 
could be said that there was an aristocracy 
in the place they were it. First, among 
the Who’s Who of Bingville, were the 
Gilligan sisters who worked in the big 
brick house of Judge Crooker; another was 
Mrs. Pat Collins, seventy-two years of age, 
who presided in the kitchen of the Rev¬ 
erend Otis Singleton; the two others were 
Susan Crowder, a woman of sixty, and a 
red-headed girl with one eye, of the name 

21 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


of Featherstraw, both of whom served the 
opulent Bings. Some of these hired girls 
ate with the family—save on special oc¬ 
casions when city folk were present. Mrs. 
Collins and the Gilligans seemed to enjoy 
this privilege but Susan Crowder, having 
had an ancestor who had fought in the 
Revolutionary War, couldn’t stand it, and 
Martha Featherstraw preferred to eat in 
the kitchen. Indeed there was some war¬ 
rant for this remarkable situation. The 
Gilligan sisters had a brother who was 
a Magistrate in a large city and Mrs. Col¬ 
lins had a son who was a successful and 
popular butcher in the growing city of 
Hazelmead. 

That part of the village known as Irish- 
town and a settlement of Poles and Italians 
furnished the man help in the mill, and 
its sons were also seen more or less in the 
fields and gardens. Ambition and Educa¬ 
tion had been working in the minds of 
the young in and about Bingville for two 

22 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


generations. The sons and daughters of 
farmers and ditch-diggers had read Virgil 
and Horace and plodded into the mysteries 
of higher mathematics. The best of them 
had gone into learned professions; others 
had enlisted in the business of great cities; 
still others had gone in for teaching or 
stenography. 

Their success had wrought a curious de¬ 
vastation in the village and countryside. 
The young moved out heading for the paths 
of glory. Many a sturdy, stupid person 
who might have made an excellent plumber, 
or carpenter, or farmer, or cook, armed 
with a university degree and a sense of 
superiority, had gone forth in quest of 
fame and fortune prepared for nothing in 
particular and achieving firm possession 
of it. Somehow the elective system had 
enabled them “to get by M in a state of 
mind that resembled the Mojave Desert. 
If they did not care for Latin or mathe¬ 
matics they could take a course in Hier- 

23 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


ology or in The Taming of the Wild 
Chickadee or in some such easy skating. 
Bingville was like many places. The young 
had fled from the irksome tasks which had 
roughened the hands and bent the backs of ( 
their parents. That, briefly, accounts for the 
fewness and the sniffiness above referred to. 

Early in 1917, the village was shaken by 
alarming and astonishing news. True, 
the sinking of the Lusitania and our own 
enlistment in the World War and the 
German successes on the Russian frontier 
had, in a way, prepared the heart and in¬ 
tellect of Bingville for shocking events. 
Still, these disasters had been remote. 
The fact that the Gilligan sisters had left 
the Crookers and accepted an offer of one 
hundred and fifty dollars a month from 
the wealthy Nixons of Hazelmead was an 
event close to the footlights, so to speak. 
It caused the news of battles to take its 
rightful place in the distant background. 
Men talked of this event in stores and on 


24 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


street corners; it was the subject of con¬ 
versation in sewing circles and the Philo- 
mathian Literary Club. That day, the 
Bings whispered about it at the dinner 
table between courses until Susan Crowder 
sent in a summons by Martha Feather- 
straw with the apple pie. She would be 
glad to see Mrs. J. Patterson Bing in the 
kitchen immediately after dinner. There 
was a moment of silence in the midst of 
which Mr. Bing winked knowingly at his 
wife, who turned pale as she put down 
her pie fork with a look of determination 
and rose and went into the kitchen. Mrs. 
Crowder regretted that she and Martha 
would have to look for another family un¬ 
less their wages were raised from one 
hundred to one hundred and fifty dollars a 
month. 

“But, Susan, we all made an agreement 
for a year,” said Mrs. Bing. 

Mrs. Crowder was sorry but she and 
Martha could not make out on the wages 

25 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


tliey were getting—everything cost so 
much. If Mary Gilligan, who couldn’t 
cook, was worth a hundred dollars a month 
Mrs. Crowder considered herself cheap at 
twice that figure. 

Mrs. Bing, in her anger, was inclined 
to revolt, but Mr. Bing settled the matter 
by submitting to the tyranny of Susan. 
With Phyllis and three of her young 
friends coming from school and a party in 
prospect, there was nothing else to do. 

Maggie Collins, who was too old and too 
firmly rooted in the village to leave it, was 
satisfied with a raise of ten dollars a 
month. Even then she received a third 
of the minister’s salary. 44 His wife being 
a swell leddy who had no time for wurruk, 
sure the boy was no sooner married than 
he yelled for help,” as Maggie was wont 
to say. 

All this had a decided effect on the 
economic life of the village. Indeed, 

26 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

Hiram Blenkinsop, the village drunkard, 
who attended to the lawns and gardens 
for a number of people, demanded an in¬ 
crease of a dollar a day in his wages on 
account of the high cost of living, although 
one would say that its effect upon him 
could not have been serious. For years 
the historic figure of Blenkinsop had been 
the destination and repository of the 
cast-off clothing and the worn and shape¬ 
less shoes of the leading citizens. For a 
decade, the venerable derby hat, which 
once belonged to Judge Crooker, had sur¬ 
vived all the incidents of his adventurous 
career. He was, indeed, as replete with 
suggestive memories as the graveyard to 
which he was wont to repair for rest and 
recuperation in summer weather. There, 
in the shade of a locust tree hard by the 
wall, he was often discovered with his 
faithful dog Christmas—a yellow, mongrel, 
good-natured cur—lying beside him, and 
the historic derby hat in his hand. He 

27 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


had a persevering pride in that hat. Mr. 
Blenkinsop showed a surprising and com¬ 
mendable industry under the stimulation 
of increased pay. He worked hard for a 
month, then celebrated his prosperity with 
a night of such noisy, riotous joy that he 
landed in the lockup with a black eye and 
a broken nose and an empty pocket. As 
usual, the dog Christmas went with him. 

When there was a loud yell in the streets 
at night Judge Crooker used to say, “It’s 
Hiram again! The poor fellow is out a- 
Hiraming. ’ 9 

William Snodgrass, the carpenter, gave 
much thought and reflection to the good 
fortune of the Gilligan girls. If a hired 
girl could earn twenty-five dollars a week 
and her board, a skilled mechanic who had 
to board himself ought to earn at least 
fifty. So he put up his prices. Israel 
Sneed, the plumber, raised his scale to cor¬ 
respond with that of the carpenter. The 
prices of the butcher and grocer kept pace 

28 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


with the rise of wages. A period of un¬ 
exampled prosperity set in. 

Some time before, the Old Spirit of 
Bingville had received notice that its ser¬ 
vices would no longer he required. It 
had been an industrious and faithful Old 
Spirit. The new generation did not in¬ 
tend to be hard on it. They were willing 
to give it a comfortable home as long as 
it lived. Its home was to be a beautiful 
and venerable asylum called The Past. 
There it was to havo nothing to do but to 
sit around and weep and talk of bygone 
days. The Old Spirit rebelled. It refused 
to abandon its appointed tasks. 

The notice had been given soon after the 
new theater was opened in the Sneed Block, 
and the endless flood of moving lights and 
shadows began to fall on its screen. The 
low-born, purblind intellects of Bohemian 
New York began to pour their lewd fancies 
into this great stream that flowed through 
every city, town and village in the land. 

29 


'THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


They had no more compunction in the 
matter than a rattlesnake when it swal¬ 
lows a rabbit. To them, there were only 
two great, bare facts in life—male and fe¬ 
male. The males, in their vulgar parlance, 
were either “wise guys” or “suckers”! 
The females were all “my dears.” 

Much of this mental sewage smelled to 
heaven. But it paid. It was cheap and 
entertaining. It relieved the tedium of 
small-town life. 

Judge Crooker was in the little theater 
the evening that the Old Spirit of Bing- 
ville received notice to quit. The sons and 
daughters and even the young children of 
the best families in the village were there. 
Scenes from the shady side of the great 
cities, bar-room adventures with pugilists 
and porcelain-faced women, the tliin-ice 
skating of illicit love succeeded one another 
on the screen. The tender souls of the 
young received the impression that life in 

30 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the great world was mostly drunkenness, 
violence, lust, and Great White Wayward¬ 
ness of one kind or another. 

Judge Crooker shook his head and his 
fist as he went out and expressed his view 
to Phyllis and her mother in the lobby. 
Going home, they called him an old prude. 
The knowledge that every night this false 
instruction was going on in the Sneed 
Block filled the good man with sorrow and 
apprehension. He complained to Mr. Leak, 
the manager, who said that he would like 
to give clean shows, but that he had to 
take what was sent him. 

Soon a curious thing happened to the 
family of Mr. J. Patterson Bing. It ac¬ 
quired a new god—one that began, as the 
reader will have observed, with a small 
“g.” He was a boneless, India-rubber, 
obedient little god. For years the need 
of one like that had been growing in the 
Bing family. Since he had become a mil¬ 
lionaire, Mr. Bing had found it necessary 

31 


[THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

to spend a good deal of time and consider¬ 
able money in New York. Certain of bis 
banker friends in the metropolis had in¬ 
troduced him to the joys of the Great 
White Way and the card room of the 
Golden Age Club. Always he had been ill 
and disgruntled for a week after his re¬ 
turn to the homely realities of Bingville. 
The shrewd intuitions of Mrs. Bing 
alarmed her. So Phyllis and John were 
packed off to private schools so that the 
good woman would be free to look after 
the imperiled welfare of the lamb of her 
flock—the great J. Patterson. She was 
really worried about him. After that, she 
always went with him to the city. She was 
pleased and delighted with the luxury of 
the Waldorf-Astoria, the costumes, the 
dinner parties, the theaters, the suppers, 
the cabaret shows. The latter shocked her 
a little at first. 

# # # * • 


32 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


They went out to a great country house, 
near the city, to spend a week-end. There 
was a dinner party on Saturday night. 
One of the ladies got very tipsy and was 
taken up-stairs. The others repaired to 
the music room to drink their coffee and 
smoke. Mrs. Bing tried a cigarette and 
got along with it very well. Then there 
was an hour of heart to heart, central 
European dancing while the older men sat 
down for a night of bridge in the library. 
Sunday morning, the young people rode to 
hounds across country while the bridge 
party continued its session in the library. 
It was not exactly a restful week-end. J. 
Patterson and his wife went to bed, as soon 
as their grips were unpacked, on their re¬ 
turn to the city and spent the day there 
with aching heads. 

While they were eating dinner that 
night, the cocktail remarked with the lips 
of Mrs. Bing: i ‘I’m getting tired of 
Bingville. ’ ’ 


33 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


4 ‘Oh, of course, it’s a picayune place / 9 
said J. Patterson. 

“It's so provincial!’’ the lady exclaimed. 
Soon, the oysters and the entree having 
subdued the cocktail, she ventured: “But 
it does seem to me that New York is an 
awfully wicked place. ’ ’ 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 
“Godless,” she answered. “The drink¬ 
ing and gambling and those dances.” 

“That’s because you’ve been brought up 
in a seven-by-nine Puritan village,” J. Pat¬ 
terson growled very decisively. “Why 
shouldn’t people enjoy themselves? We 
have trouble enough at best. God gave us 
bodies to get what enjoyment we could 
out of them. It’s about the only thing 
we’re sure of, anyhow.” 

It was a principle of Mrs. Bing to agree 
with J. Patterson. And why not? He was 
a great man. She knew it as well as he did 
and that was knowing it very well in¬ 
deed. His judgment about many things 

34 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


had been right—triumphantly and over¬ 
whelmingly right. Besides, it was the only 
comfortable thing to do. She had been the 
type of woman who reads those weird 
articles written by grass widows on “How 
to Keep the Love of a Husband.’’ 

So it happened that the Bings began to 
construct a little god to suit their own 
tastes and habits—one about as tractable 
as a toy dog. They withdrew from the 
Congregational Church and had house 
parties for sundry visitors from New York 
and Hazelmead every week-end. 

Phyllis returned from school in May 
with a spirit quite in harmony with that 
of her parents. She had spent the holidays 
at the home of a friend in New York and 
had learned to love the new dances and to 
smoke, although that was a matter to be 
mentioned only in a whisper and not in 
the presence of her parents. She was a 
tall, handsome girl with blue eyes, blonde 
hair, perfect teeth and complexion, and al- 

35 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


most a perfect figure. Here she was, at 
last, brought up to the point of a coming- 
out party. 

It had been a curious and rather unfor¬ 
tunate bringing up that the girl had suf¬ 
fered. She had been the pride of a 
mother’s heart and the occupier of that 
position is apt to achieve great success in 
supplying a mother’s friends with topics 
of conversation. Phyllis had been flattered 
and indulged. Mrs. Bing was entitled to 
much credit, having been born of poor and 
illiterate parents in a small village on the 
Hudson a little south of the Capital. She 
was pretty and grew up with a longing for 
better things. J. Patterson got her at a 
bargain in an Albany department store 
where she stood all day behind the notion 
counter. "At a bargain,” it must be said, 
because, on the whole, there were higher 
values in her personality than in his. She 
had acquired that common Bertha Clay 

36 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


habit of associating with noble lords who 
lived in cheap romances and had a taste for 
poor but honest girls. The practical J. 
Patterson hated that kind of thing. But 
his wife kept a supply of these highly 
flavored novels hidden in the little flat and 
spent her leisure reading them. 

One of the earliest recollections of 
Phyllis was the caution, “Don’t tell 
father!’’ received on the hiding of a book. 
Mrs. Bing had bought, in those weak, 
pinching times of poverty, extravagant 
things for herself and the girl and gone 
in debt for them. Collectors had come at 
times to get their money with impatient 
demands. 

The Bings were living in a city those 
days. Phyllis had been a witness of many 
interviews of the kind. All along the way 
of life, she had heard the oft-repeated in¬ 
junction, “Don’t tell father!” She came 
to regard men as creatures who were not 
to be told. When Phyllis got into a scrape 

37 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


at school, on account of a little flirtation, 
and Mrs. Bing went to see about it, the two 
agreed on keeping the salient facts from 
father. 

A dressmaker came after Phyllis arrived 
to get her ready for the party. The after¬ 
noon of the event, J. Patterson brought 
the young people of the best families of 
Hazelmead by special train to Bingville. 
The Crookers, the Witherills, the Ameses, 
the Renfrews and a number of the 
most popular students in the Normal 
School were also invited. They had the 
famous string band from Hazelmead to 
furnish music, and Smith—an impressive 
young English butler whom they had 
brought from New York on their last re¬ 
turn. 

Phyllis wore a gown which Judge 
Crooker described as ‘ ‘ the limit.’ ’ He said 
to his wife after they had gone home: 
“Why, there was nothing on her back but 

38 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


a pair of velvet gallowses and when I stood 
in front of her my eyes were scared.’’ 

“Mrs. Bing calls it high art,” said the 
Judge’s wife. 

“I call it down pretty close to see level,” 
said the Judge. “When she clinched with 
those young fellers and went wrestling 
around the room she reminded me of a 
grape-vine growing on a tree.” 

This reaction on the intellect of the 
Judge quite satisfies the need of the his¬ 
torian. Again the Old Spirit of Bingville 
had received notice. It is only necessary 
to add that the punch was strong and the 
house party over the week-end made a 
good deal of talk by fast driving around 
the country in motor-cars on Sunday and 
by loud singing in boats on the river and 
noisy play on the tennis courts. That kind 
of thing was new to Bingville. 

When it was all over, Phyllis told her 
mother that Gordon King—one of the 
young men—had insulted her when they 

39 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


had been out in a boat together on Sunday. 
Mrs. Bing was shocked. They had a talk 
about it up in Phyllis’ bedroom at the end 
of which Mrs. Bing repeated that familiar 
injunction, ‘ 4 Don’t tell father V 9 

It was soon after the party that Mr. J. 
Patterson Bing sent for William Snod¬ 
grass, the carpenter. He wanted an ex¬ 
tension built on his house containing new 
bedrooms and baths and a large sun parlor. 
The estimate of Snodgrass was unexpect¬ 
edly large. In explanation of the fact the 
latter said: “We work only eight hours 
a day now. The men demand it and they 
must be taken to and from their work. 
They can get all they want to do on those 
terms. ’ ’ 

“And they demand seven dollars and a 
half a day at that? IPs big pay for an 
ordinary mechanic,” said J. Patterson. 

“There’s plenty of work to do,” Snod¬ 
grass answered. “I don’t care the snap 
o’ my finger whether I get your job or not. 

40 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


I'm forty thousand ahead o’ the game and 
I feel like layin’ off for the summer and 
takin’ a rest.” 

‘ k I suppose I could get you to work over¬ 
time and hurry the job through if I’m 
willing to pay for it?” the millionaire in¬ 
quired. 

“The rate would he time an’ a half for 
work done after the eight hours are up, 
but it’s hard to get any one to work over¬ 
time these days.” 

“Well, go ahead and get all the work 
you can out of these plutocrats of the saw 
and hammer. I’ll pay the bills,” said J. 
Patterson. 

The terms created a record in Bingville. 
But, as Mr. Bing had agreed to them, in 
his haste, they were established. 

Israel Sneed, the plumber, was working 
with his men on a job at Millerton, but he 
took on the plumbing for the Bing house 
extension, at prices above all precedent, 
to be done as soon as he could get to it on 

41 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


his return. The butcher and grocer had 
improved the opportunity to raise their 
prices for Bing never questioned a bill. He 
set the pace. Prices stuck where he put 
the peg. So, unwittingly, the millionaire 
had created conditions of life that were 
extremely difficult. 

Since prices had gone up the village of 
Bingville had been running down at the 
heel. It had been at best and, in the main, 
a rather shiftless and inert community. 
The weather had worn the paint off many 
houses before their owners had seen the 
need of repainting. Not until the rain 
drummed on the floor was the average, 
drowsy intellect of Bingville roused to ac¬ 
tion on the roof. It must be said, however, 
that every one was busy, every day, except 
Hiram Blenkinsop, who often indulged in 
ante mortem slumbers in the graveyard 
or went out on the river with his dog 
Christmas, his bottle and his fishing rod. 

42 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


The people were selling goods, or team¬ 
ing, or working in the two hotels or the 
machine shop or the electric light plant 
or the mill, or keeping the hay off the 
lawns, or bnilding, or teaching in the 
schools. The gardens were suffering un¬ 
usual neglect that season—their owners 
being so profitably engaged in other work 
—and the lazy foreigners demanded four 
dollars and a half a day and had to be 
watched and sworn at and instructed, and 
not every one had the versatility for this 
task. The gardens were largely dependent 
on the spasmodic industry of schoolboys 
and old men. So it will be seen that the 
work of the community had little effect 
on the supply of things necessary to life. 
Indeed, a general habit of extravagance 
had been growing in the village. People 
were not so careful of food, fuel and cloth¬ 
ing as they had been. 

It was a wet summer in Bingville. The 
day after the rains began, Professor Ren- 

43 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


frew called at the house of the sniffy Snod¬ 
grass—the nouveau riche and opulent 
carpenter. He sat reading the morning 
paper with a new diamond ring on the 
third finger of his left hand. 

“My roof is leaking badly and it will 
have to be fixed at once,” the Professor 
announced. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t do a thing for you 
now,” said Snodgrass. “I’ve got so much 
to do, I don’t know which way to turn.” 

“But you’re not working this rainy day, 
are you?” the Professor asked. 

“No, and I don’t propose to work in 
this rain for anybody; if I did I’d fix my 
own roof. To tell you the truth, I don’t 
have to work at all! I calculate that I’ve 
got all the money I need. So, when it 
rains, I intend to rest and get acquainted 
with my family.” 

He was firm but in no way disagreeable 
about it. 

Some of the half-dozen men who, in like 

44 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


trouble, called on him for help that day 
were inclined to resent his declaration of 
independence and his devotion to leisure, 
but really Mr. Snodgrass was well within 
his rights. 

It was a more serious matter when Judge 
Crooker’s plumbing leaked and flooded his 
kitchen and cellar. Israel Sneed was in 
Millerton every day and working overtime 
more or less. He refused to put a hand 
on the Judge’s pipes. He was sorry but 
he couldn’t make a horse of himself and 
even if he could the time was past when 
he had to do it. Judge Crooker brought 
a plumber from Hazelmead, sixty miles 
in a motor-car, and had to pay seventy 
dollars for time, labor and materials. This 
mechanic declared that there was too much 
pressure on the pipes, a judgment of whose 
accuracy we have abundant proof in the 
history of the next week or so. Never had 
there been such a bursting of pipes and 
flooding of cellars. That little lake up in 

45 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

the hills which supplied the water of Bing- 
ville seemed to have got the common no¬ 
tion of moving into the village. A dozen 
cellars were turned into swimming pools. 
Modern improvements were going out of 
commission. A committee went to Hazel- 
;mead and after a week’s pleading got a 
pair of young and inexperienced plumbers 
to come to Bingville. 

4 4 They must ’a ’ plugged ’em with gold, ’ ’ 
said Deacon Hosley, when the bill arrived. 

New leaks were forthcoming, but Hiram 
Blenkinsop conceived the notion of stop¬ 
ping them with poultices of white lead and 
bandages of canvas bound with fine wire. 
They dripped and many of the pipes of 
Bingville looked as if they were suffering 
from sprained ankles and sore throats, but 
Hiram had prevented another deluge. 

The price of coal had driven the people 
of Bingville back to the woods for fuel. 
The old wood stoves had been cleaned and 
set up in the sitting-rooms and kitchens. 

46 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


The saving had been considerable. Now, 
so many men were putting in their time 
on the house and grounds of J. Patterson 
Bing and the new factory at Millerton that 
the local wood dealer found it impossible 
to get the help he needed. Not twenty- 
five per cent, of the orders on his books 
could be filled. 

Mr. Bing’s house was finished in October. 
Then Snodgrass announced that he was go¬ 
ing to take it easy as became a man of 
his opulence. He had bought a farm and 
would only work three days a week at his 
trade. Sneed had also bought a farm and 
acquired a feeling of opulence. He was 
going to work when he felt like it. Before 
he tackled any leaking pipes he proposed 
to make a few leaks in the deer up in the 
Adirondacks. So the roofs and the plumb¬ 
ing had to wait. 

Meanwhile, Bingville was in sore trouble. 
The ancient roof of its respectability had 
begun to leak. The beams and rafters in 

47 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

the house of its spirit were rotting away. 
Many of the inhabitants of the latter re¬ 
garded the great J. Patterson Bing with 
a kind of awe—like that of the Shepherd 
of the Birds. He was the leading citizen. 
He had done things. When J. Patterson 
Bing decided that rest or fresh air was 
better for him than bad music and dull 
prayers and sermons, and that God was 
really not much concerned as to whether 
a man sat in a pew or a rocking chair or 
a motor-car on Sunday, he was, probably, 
quite right. Really, it was a matter much 
more important to Mr. Bing and his neigh¬ 
bors than to God. Indeed, it is not at all 
likely that the ruler of the universe was 
worrying much about them. But when J. 
Patterson Bing decided in favor of fun and 
fresh air, R. Purdy—druggist—made a 
like decision, and R. Purdy was a man of 
commanding influence in his own home. 
His daughters, Mabel and Gladys, and his 
son, Richard, Jr., would not have been sur- 

48 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


prised to see him elected President of the 
United States, some day, believing that 
that honor was only for the truly great. 
Soon Mrs. Purdy stood alone—a hopeless 
minority of one—in the household. By 
much pleading and nagging, she kept the 
children in the fold of the church for a 
time but, by and by, grew weary of the 
effort. She was converted by nervous ex¬ 
haustion to the picnic Sunday. Her con¬ 
science worried her. She really felt sorry 
for God and made sundry remarks cal¬ 
culated to appease and comfort Him. 

Now all this would seem to have been 
in itself a matter of slight importance. 

But Orville Gates, the superintendent of 
the mill, and John Seaver, attorney at law, 
and Robert Brown, the grocer, and Pendle¬ 
ton Ames, who kept the book and station¬ 
ery store, and William Ferguson, the 
clothier, and Darwin Sill, the butcher, and 
Snodgrass, the carpenter, and others had 

49 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


joined the picnic caravan led by the mil¬ 
lionaire. These good people would not 
have admitted it, but the truth is J. Pat¬ 
terson Bing held them all in the hollow 
of his hand. Nobody outside his own 
family had any affection for him. Out¬ 
wardly, he was as hard as nails. But he 
owned the bank and controlled credits and 
was an extravagant buyer. He had given 
freely for the improvement of the village 
and the neighboring city of Hazelmead. 
His family was the court circle of Bing- 
ville. Consciously or unconsciously, the 
best people imitated the Bings. 

Judge Crooker was, one day, discussing 
with a friend the social conditions of Bing- 
ville. In regard to picnic Sundays he 
made this remark: “George Meredith 
once wrote to his son that he would need 
the help of religion to get safely beyond 
the stormy passions of youth. It is very 
true! ’ ’ 

The historian was reminded of this say- 

50 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

ing by the undertow of the life currents 
in Bingville. The dances in the Normal 
School and in the homes of the well-to-do 
were imitations of the great party at J. 
Patterson Bing’s. The costumes of certain 
of the young ladies were, to quote a clause 
from the posters of the Messrs. Barnum 
and Bailey, still clinging to the bill-board: 
“the most daring and amazing bareback 
performances in the history of the circus 
ring.” Phyllis Bing, the unrivaled metro¬ 
politan performer, set the pace. It was 
distinctly too rapid for her followers. If 
one may say it kindly, she was as cold and 
heartless and beautiful in her act as a 
piece of bronze or Italian marble. She was 
not ashamed of herself. She did it so 
easily and gracefully and unconsciously 
and obligingly, so to speak, as if her license 
had never been questioned. It was not so 
with Vivian Mead and Frances Smith and 
Pauline Baker. They limped and strug¬ 
gled in their efforts to keep up. To begin 

51 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


with, the art of their modiste had been 
fussy, imitative and timid. It lacked the 
master touch. Their spirits were also im¬ 
properly prepared for such publicity. 
They blushed and looked apologies and 
were visibly uncomfortable when they en¬ 
tered the dance-hall. 

On this point, Judge Crooker delivered 
a famous opinion. It was: “I feel sorry 
for those girls but their mothers ought to 
be spanked!” 

There is evidence that this sentence of 
his was carried out in due time and in a 
most effectual manner. But the works of 
art which these mothers had put on ex¬ 
hibition at the Normal School sprang into 
overwhelming popularity with the young 
men and their cards were quickly filled. 
In half an hour, they had ceased to blush. 
Their eyes no longer spoke apologies. 
They were new women. Their initiation 
was complete. They had become in the 

52 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


language of Judge Crooker, “ perfect Phyl- 
listines! ’’ 

The dancing tried to be as naughty as 
that remarkable Phyllistinian pastime at 
the mansion of the Bings and succeeded 
well, if not handsomely. The modern 
dances and dress were now definitely estab¬ 
lished in Bingville. 

Just before the holidays, the extension 
of the ample home of the millionaire was 
decorated, furnished, and ready to be 
shown. Mrs. Bing and Phyllis who had 
been having a fling in New York came 
home for the holidays. John arrived the 
next day from the great Padelford School 
to be with the family through the winter 
recess. Mrs. Bing gave a tea to the ladies 
of Bingville. She wanted them to see the 
improvements and become aware of her 
good will. She had thought of an evening 
party, but there were many men in the 
village whom she didn’t care to have in 
her house. So it became a tea. 

53 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


The women talked of leaking roofs and 
water pipes and useless bathrooms and 
outrageous costs. Phyllis sat in the Palm 
Eoom with the village girls. It happened 
that they talked mainly about their fathers. 
Some had complained of paternal strict¬ 
ness. 

6 ‘ Men are terrible! They make so much 
trouble,” said Frances Smith. “It seems 
as if they hated to see anybody have a 
good time.” 

“Mother and I do as we please and say 
nothing,” said Phyllis. “We never tell 
father anything. Men don’t understand.” 

Some of the girls smiled and looked into 
one another’s eyes. 

There had been a curious undercurrent 
in the party. It did not break the surface 
of the stream until Mrs. Bing asked 
Mrs. Pendleton Ames, “Where is Susan 
Baker?” 

A silence fell upon the group around her. 

Mrs. Ames leaned toward Mrs. Bing and 

54 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


whispered, “ Haven’t you heard the 
news ? ’’ 

“No. I had to scold Susan Crowder and 
Martha Featherstraw as soon as I got here 
for neglecting their work and they’ve 
hardly spoken to me since. What is it?” 

“Pauline Baker has run away with a 
strange young man, ’ ’ Mrs. Ames whispered. 

Mrs. Bing threw up both hands, opened 
her mouth and looked toward the ceiling. 

“You don’t mean it,” she gasped. 

“It’s a fact. Susan told me. Mr. Baker 
doesn’t know the truth yet and she doesn’t 
dare to tell him. She’s scared stiff. 
Pauline went over to Hazelmead last week 
to visit Emma Stacy against his wishes. 
She met the young man at a dance. Susan 
got a letter from Pauline last night mak¬ 
ing a clean breast of the matter. They 
are married and stopping at a hotel in New 
York.” 

“My lord! I should think she would 
be scared stiff,” said Mrs. Bing. 

55 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I think there is a good reason for the 
stiffness of Susan, ” said Mrs. Singleton, 
the wife of the Congregational minister. 
i ‘We all know that Mr. Baker objected to 
these modern dances and the way that 
Pauline dressed. He used to say that it 
was walking on the edge of a precipice/ ’ 

There was a breath of silence in which 
one could hear only a faint rustle like the 
stir of some invisible spirit. 

Mrs. Bing sighed. 4 Hie may be all 
right,” she said in a low, calm voice. 

“But the indications are not favorable,” 
Mrs. Singleton remarked. 

The gossip ceased abruptly, for the girls 
were coming out of the Palm Boom. 

The next morning, Mrs. Bing went to 
see Susan Baker to offer sympathy and a 
helping hand. Mamie Bing was, after all, 
a good-hearted woman. By this time, Mr. 
Baker had been told. He had kicked a 
hole in the long looking-glass in Pauline’s 
bedroom and flung a pot of rouge through 

56 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the window and scattered talcum powder 
all over the place and torn a new silk 
gown into rags and burnt it in the kitchen 
stove and left the house slamming the 
door behind him. Susan had gone to bed 
and he had probably gone to the club or 
somewhere. Perhaps he would commit 
suicide. Of all this, it is enough to say 
that for some hours there was abundant 
occupation for the tender sympathies of 
Mrs. J. Patterson Bing. Before she left, 
Mr. Baker had returned for luncheon and 
seemed to be quite calm and self-possessed 
when he greeted her in the hall below 
stairs. 

On entering her home, about one o ’clock, 
Mrs. Bing received a letter from the hand 
of Martha. 

“Phyllis told me to give you this as soon 
as you returned,” said the girl. 

“What does this mean?” Mrs. Bing 
whispered to herself, as she tore open the 
envelope. 


57 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Her face grew pale and her hands trem¬ 
bled as she read the letter. 

“Dearest Mamma,” it began. “I am 
going to Hazelmead for luncheon with 
Gordon King. I couldn’t ask you because 
I didn’t know where you were. We have 
waited an hour. I am sure you wouldn’t 
want me to miss having a lovely time. I 
shall be home before five. Don’t tell 
father! He hates Gordon so. 

“Phyllis.” 

“The boy who insulted her! My God!” 
Mrs. Bing exclaimed in a whisper. She 
hurried to the door of the butler’s pantry. 
Indignation was in the sound of her 
footsteps. 

“Martha!” she called. 

Martha came. 

“Tell James to bring the big car at once. 
I’m going to Hazelmead.” 

“Without luncheon?” the girl asked. 

“Just give me a sandwich and I’ll eat 
it in my hand.” 


58 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I want you to hurry /’ she said to 
James as she entered the glowing limou¬ 
sine with the sandwich half consumed. 

They drove at top speed over the smooth, 
state road to the mill city. At half past 
two, Mrs. Bing alighted at the fashionable 1 
Gray Goose Inn where the best people had 
their luncheon parties. She found Phyllis 
and Gordon in a cozy alcove, sipping 
cognac and smoking cigarettes, with an 
ice tub and a champagne bottle beside 
them. To tell the whole truth, it was a 
timely arrival. Phyllis, with no notion of 
the peril of it, was indeed having “a lovely 
time”—the time of her young life, in fact. 
For half an hour, she had been hanging 
on the edge of the giddy precipice of elope¬ 
ment. She was within one sip of a deci¬ 
sion to let go. 

Mrs. Bing was admirably cool. In her 
manner there was little to indicate that 
she had seen the unusual and highly festive 
accessories. She sat down beside them 

59 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


and said, “My dear, I was very lonely and 
thought I would come and look you up. Is 
your luncheon finished?” 

“Yes,” said Phyllis. 

“Then let us go and get into the car. 
We’ll drop Mr. King at his home.” 

When at last they were seated in the 
limousine, the angry lady lifted the brakes 
in a way of speaking. 

“I am astonished that you would go to 
luncheon with this young man who has in¬ 
sulted you,” she said. 

Phyllis began to cry. 

Turning to young Gordon King, the in¬ 
dignant lady added: “I think you are a 
disreputable boy. You must never come 
to my house again— never /” 

He made no answer and left the car with¬ 
out a word at the door of the King resi¬ 
dence. 

There were miles and miles of weeping 
on the way home. Phyllis had recovered 

60 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


her composure but began again when her 
mother remarked, 4 ‘I wonder where you 
learned to drink champagne and cognac 
and smoke cigarettes,” as if her own home 
had not been a perfect academy of dissipa¬ 
tion. The girl sat in a feorner, her eyes 
covered with her handkerchief and the 
only words she uttered on the way home 
were these: * 4 Don’t tell father!” 

While this was happening, Mr. Baker 
confided his troubles to Judge Crooker in 
the latter’s office. The Judge heard him 
through and then delivered another notable 
opinion, to wit: 4 4 There are many subjects 
on which the judgment of the average man 
is of little value, but in the matter of bring¬ 
ing up a daughter it is apt to be sound. 
Also there are many subjects on which the 
judgment of the average woman may be 
trusted, but in the matter of bringing up 
a daughter it is apt to be unsound. I say 
this, after some forty years of observa¬ 
tion.” 


61 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


4 ‘What is the reason?” Mr. Baker asked. 

“Well, a daughter has to be prepared 
to deal with men,” the Judge went on. 
“The masculine temperament is involved 
in all the critical problems of her life. 
Naturally the average man is pretty well 
informed on the subject of men. You have 
prospered these late years. You have been 
so busy getting rich that you have just 
used your home to eat and sleep in. You 
can’t do a home any good by eating and 
snoring and reading a paper in it.” 

‘ 4 My wife would have her own way 
there,” said Baker. 

44 That doesn’t alter the fact that you 
have neglected your home. You have let 
things slide. You wore yourself out in 
this matter of money-getting. You were 
tired when you got home at night—all in, 
as they say. The bank was the main thing 
with you. I repeat that you let things slide 
at home and the longer they slide the 
faster they slide when they’re going down 

62 


*THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


hill. Yon can always count on that in a 
case of sliding. The young have a taste 
for velocity and often it comes so unac¬ 
countably fast that they don’t know what 
to do with it, so they’re apt to get their 
necks broken unless there’s some one to 
put on the brakes.” 

Mr. Emanuel Baker arose and began to 
stride up and down the room. 

44 Upon my word, Judge! I don’t know 
what to do,” he exclaimed. 

44 There’s only one thing to do. Go and 
find the young people and give them your 
blessing. If you can discover a spark of 
manhood in the fellow, make the most of 
it. The chances are against that, but let 
us hope for the best. Above all, I want 
you to be gentle with Pauline. You are 
more to blame than she is.” 

44 I don’t see how I can spare the time, 
but I’ll have to,” said Baker. 

44 Time! Fiddlesticks!” the Judge ex¬ 
claimed. 44 What a darn fool money makes 

63 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


of a man! You have lost your sense of 
proportion, your appreciation of values. 
Bill Pritchard used to talk that way to 
me. He has been lying twenty years in his 
grave. He hadn’t a minute to spare until 
one day he fell dead—then leisure and lots 
of leisure it would seem—and the business 
has doubled since he quit worrying about 
it. My friend, you can not take a cent into 
Paradise, but the soul of Pauline is a dif¬ 
ferent kind of property. It might be a 
help to you there. Give plenty of time to 
this job, and good luck to you.” 

The spirit of the old, dead days spoke 
in the voice of the Judge—spoke with a 
kindly dignity. It had ever been the voice 
of Justice, tempered with Mercy—the most 
feared and respected voice in the upper 
counties. His grave, smooth-shaven face, 
his kindly gray eyes, his noble brow with 
its crown of white hair were fitting 
accessories of the throne of Justice and 
Mercy. 


64 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I’ll go this afternoon. Thank you, 
Judge!” said Baker, as he left the office. 

Pauline had announced in her letter that 
her husband’s name was Herbert Middle- 
ton. Mr. Baker sent a telegram to Pauline 
to apprise her of his arrival in the morn¬ 
ing. It was a fatherly message of love and 
good-will. At the hotel in New York, Mr. 
Baker learned that Mr. and Mrs. Middle- 
ton had checked out the day before. No¬ 
body could tell him where they had gone. 
One of the men at the porter’s desk told 
of putting them in a taxicab with their 
grips and a steamer trunk soon after 
luncheon. He didn’t know where they 
went. Mr. Baker’s telegram was there 
unopened. He called at every hotel desk 
in the city, but he could get no trace of 
them. He telephoned to Mrs. Baker. She 
had heard nothing from Pauline. In de¬ 
spair, he went to the Police Department 
and told his story to the Chief. 

65 


I 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

“It looks as if there was something 
crooked about it, ’ ’ said the Chief. 4 4 There 
are many cases like this. Just read 
that. ’ 9 

\ The officer picked up a newspaper clip¬ 
ping, which lay on his desk, and passed it 
to Mr. Baker. It was from the New York 
Evening Post. The banker read aloud this 
startling information: 

4 4 4 The New York police report that 
approximately 3600 girls have run away 
or disappeared from their homes in the 
past eleven months, and the Bureau of 
Missing Persons estimates that the num¬ 
ber who have disappeared throughout the 
country approximates 68,000.’ 99 

“IPs rather astonishing,’’ the Chief 
went on. 4 4 The women seem to have gone 
crazy these days. Maybe it’s the new 
dancing and the movies that are breaking 
down the morals of the little suburban 
towns or maybe it’s the excitement of the 
war. Anyhow, they keep the city supplied 

66 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


with runaways and vamps. You are not 
the first anxious father I have seen to-day. 
You can go home. I’ll put a man on the 
case and let you know what happens.’’ 


CHAPTER THREE 


Which Tells of the Complaining Coin 
and the Man Who Lost His Self 

HERE was a certain gold coin in a 



little bureau drawer in Bingville 
which began to form a habit of complain¬ 
ing to its master. 

“How cold I am!” it seemed to say to 
the boy. “I was cold when you put me 
in here and I have been cold ever since. 
Br-r-r! I’m freezing.” 

Bob Moran took out the little drawer 
and gave it a shaking as he looked down 
at the gold piece. 

“Don’t get rattled,” said the redoubt¬ 
able Mr. Bloggs, who had a great contempt 
for cowards. 

It was just after the Shepherd of the 


68 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Birds had heard of a poor widow who 
was the mother of two small children and 
who had fallen sick of the influenza with 
no fuel in her house. 

“I am cold, too!” said the Shepherd. 

4 ‘Why, of course you are,” the coin an¬ 
swered. “Tliat ? s the reason I’m cold. A 
coin is never any warmer than the heart 
of its owner. Why don’t you take me out 
of here and give me a chance to move 
around?” 

Things that would not say a word to 
other boys often spoke to the Shepherd. 

‘‘Let him go,” said Mr. Bloggs. 

Indeed it was the tin soldier, who stood 
on his little shelf looking out of the win¬ 
dow, who first reminded Boh of the loneli¬ 
ness and discomfort of the coin. As a rule 
whenever the conscience of the boy was 
touched Mr. Bloggs had something to say. 

It was late in February and every one 
was complaining of the cold. Even the 
oldest inhabitants of Bingville could not 

69 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


recall so severe a winter. Many families 
were short of fuel. The homes of the work¬ 
ing folk were insufficiently heated. Money 
in the bank had given them a sense of 
security. They could not believe that its 
magic power would fail to bring them 
what they needed. So they had been care¬ 
less of their allowance of wood and coal. 
There were days when they had none and 
could get none at the yard. Some of them 
took boards out of their barn floors and 
cut down shade trees and broke up the 
worst of their furniture to feed the kitchen 
stove in those days of famine. Some men 
with hundreds of dollars in the bank went 
out into the country at night and stole 
rails off the farmers’ fences. The homes 
of these unfortunate people were ravaged 
by influenza and many died. 

Prices at the stores mounted higher. 
Most of the gardens had been lying idle. 
The farmers had found it hard to get help. 
Some of the latter, indeed, had decided 

70 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


that they could make more by teaming at 
Millerton than by toiling in the fields, and 
with less effort. They left the boys and 
the women to do what they could with the 
crops. Naturally the latter were small. 
So the local sources of supply had little 
to offer and the demand upon the stores 
steadily increased. Certain of the mer¬ 
chants had been, in a way, spoiled by pros¬ 
perity. They were rather indifferent to 
complaints and demands. Many of the 
storekeepers, irritated, doubtless, by over¬ 
work, had lost their former politeness. 
The two butchers, having prospered be¬ 
yond their hopes, began to feel the need 
of rest. They cut down their hours of labor 
and reduced their stocks and raised their 
prices. There were days when their sup¬ 
plies failed to arrive. The railroad ser¬ 
vice had been bad enough in times of peace. 
Now, it was worse than ever. 

Those who had plenty of money found 

71 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


it difficult to get a sufficient quantity of 
good food, Bingville being rather cut off 
from other centers of life by distance and 
a poor railroad. Some drove sixty miles 
to Hazelmead to do marketing for them¬ 
selves and their neighbors. 

Mr. and Mrs. J. Patterson Bing, how¬ 
ever, in their luxurious apartment at the 
Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York, knew 
little of these conditions until Mr. Bing 
came up late in March for a talk with the 
mill superintendent. Many of the sick and 
poor suffered extreme privation. Father 
O’Neil and the Reverend Otis Singleton of 
the Congregational Church went among 
the people, ministering to the sick, of • 
whom there were very many, and giving 
counsel to men and women who were un- 
accustomed to prosperity and ill-qualified 
wisely to enjoy it. One day, Father O’Neil 
saw the Widow Moran coming into town 
with a great bundle of fagots on her 
back. 


72 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


* ‘This looks a little like the old coun¬ 
try/ ’ lie remarked. 

She stopped and swung her fagots to the 
ground and announced: “It do that an’ 
may God help us! It’s hard times, Father. 
In spite o’ all the money, it’s hard times. 
It looks like there wasn’t enough to go 
’round—the ships be takin’ so many things 
to the old country.” 

“How is my beloved Shepherd?” the 
good Father asked. 

‘ ‘ Mother o ’ God! The house is that cold, 
he’s been layin’ abed for a week an’ Judge 
Crooker has been away on the circuit. ’ ’ 

“Too bad!” said the priest. “I’ve been 
so busy with the sick and the dying and 
the dead I have hardly had time to think of 
you. ’ ’ 

Against her protest, he picked up the 
fagots and carried them on his own back 
to her kitchen. 

He found the Shepherd in a sweater 
sitting up in bed and knitting socks. 

73 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“How is my dear boy?” the good Father 
asked. 

“Very sad,” said the Shepherd. “I 
want to do something to help and my legs 
are useless.” 

“Courage!” Mr. Bloggs seemed to 
shout from his shelf at the window- 
side and just then he assumed a most 
valiant and determined look as he added: 
“Forward! march!” 

Father O’Neil did what he could to help 
in that moment of peril by saying: 

“Cheer up, boy. I’m going out to Han 
Mullin’s this afternoon and I’ll make him 

bring you a big load of wood. I’ll have 

»• 

you back at your work to-morrow. The 
spring will be coming soon and your flock 
will be back in the garden. ’ ’ 

It was not easy to bring a smile to the 
face of the little Shepherd those days. A 
number of his friends had died and others 
were sick and he was helpless. Moreover, 

74 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

his mother had told him of the disappear¬ 
ance of Pauline and that her parents 
feared she was in great trouble. This had 
worried him, and the more because his 
mother had declared that the girl was prob¬ 
ably worse than dead. lie could not quite 
understand it and his happy spirit was 
clouded. The good Father cheered him 
with merry jests. Near the end of their 
talk the boy said: “There’s one thing in 
this room that makes me unhappy. It’s 
that gold piece in the drawer. It does 
nothing but lie there and shiver and talk 
to me. Seems as if it complained of the 
cold. It says that it wants to move around 
and get warm. Every time I hear of some 
poor person that needs food or fuel, it 
calls out to me there in the little drawer 
and says, 4 How cold I am! How cold I 
am!’ My mother wishes me to keep it 
for some time of trouble that may come 
to us, but I can’t. It makes me un¬ 
happy. Please take it away and let it 

75 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


do what it can to keep the poor people 
warm. ’’ 

“Well done, boys!” Mr. Bloggs seemed 
to say with a look of joy as if he now 
perceived that the enemy was in full re¬ 
treat. 

4 4 There ’s no worse company, these days, 
than a hoarded coin,” said the priest. “I 
won’t let it plague you any more.” 

Father O’Neil took the coin from the 
drawer. It fell from his fingers with a 
merry laugh as it bounded on the floor and 
whirled toward the doorway like one over¬ 
joyed and eager to be off. 

“God bless you, my boy! May it buy 
for you the dearest wish of your heart.” 

“Ha ha!” laughed the little tin soldier 
for he knew the dearest wish of the boy 
far better than the priest knew it. 

Mr. Singleton called soon after Father 
O’Neil had gone away. 

“The top of the morning to you!” he 
shouted, as he came into Bob’s room. 

76 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“It's all right top and bottom, ” Bob 
answered cheerfully. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” 
the minister went on. “I’m a regular 
Santa Claus this morning. I’ve got a 
thousand dollars that Mr. Bing sent me. 
It’s for any one that needs help.” 

“We’ll be all right as soon as our load 
of wood comes. It will be here to-morrow 
morning,” said the Shepherd. 

“I’ll come and cut and split it for you,” 
the minister proposed. “The eloquence of 
the axe is better than that of the tongue 
these days. Meanwhile, I’m going to 
bring you a little jag in my wheelbarrow. 
How about beefsteak and bacon and eggs 
and all that?” 

“I guess we’ve got enough to eat, thank 
you.” This was not quite true, for Bob, 
thinking of the sick, whose people could 
not go to market, was inclined to hide his 
own hunger. 

“Ho, ho!” exclaimed Mr. Bloggs, for 

77 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


he knew very well that the boy was hiding 
his hunger. 

“Do you call that a lie?” the Shepherd 
asked as soon as the minister had gone. 

“A little one! But in my opinion it 
don’t count,” said Mr. Bloggs. “You were 
thinking of those who need food more 
than you and that turns it square around. 
I call it a golden lie—I do. ’’ 

The minister had scarcely turned the cor¬ 
ner of the street, when he met Hiram Blen- 
kinsop, who was shivering along without 
an overcoat, the dog Christmas at his heels. 

Mr. Singleton stopped him. 

“Why, man! Haven’t you an over¬ 
coat?” he asked. 

“No, sir! It’s hangin’ on a peg in a 
pawn-shop over in Hazelmead. It ain’t 
doin’ the peg any good nor me neither!” 

“Well, sir, you come with me,” said the 
minister. “ It’s about dinner time, anyway, 
and I guess you need lining as well as 
covering. ’ ’ 


78 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


The drunkard looked into the face of the 
minister. 

‘ ‘ Say it ag ’in, ’ ’ he muttered. 

“I wouldn’t wonder if a little food would 
make you feel better,” Mr. Singleton 
added. 

“A little, did ye say?” Blenkinsop 
asked. 

“Make it a lot—as much as you can ac¬ 
commodate. ’ ’ 

“And do ye mean that ye want me to 
go an’ eat in yer house?” 

“Yes, at my table—why not?” 

“It 'wouldn’t be respectable. I don’t 
want to be too particular but a tramp 
must draw the line somewhere.” 

“I’ll be on my best behavior. Come 
on,” said the minister. 

The two men hastened up the street fol¬ 
lowed by the dejected little yellow dog, 
Christmas. 

Mrs. Singleton and her daughter were 
out with a committee of the Children's 

79 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Helpers and the minister was dining alone 
that day and, as usual, at one o’clock, that 
being the hour for dinner in the village 
of Bingville. 

4 ‘Tell me about yourself,” said the min¬ 
ister as they sat down at the table. 

‘ ‘ Myself—did you say ? ’ ’ Hiram Blenkin- 
sop asked as one of his feet crept under 
his chair to conceal its disreputable ap¬ 
pearance, while his dog had partly hidden 
himself under a serving table where he 
seemed to be shivering with apprehension 
as he peered out, with raised hackles, at 
the stag’s head over the mantel. 

“Yes.” 

“I ain’t got any Self, sir; it’s all gone,” 
said Blenkinsop, as he took a swallow of 
water. 

“A man without any Self is a curious 
creature,” the minister remarked. 

“I’m as empty as a woodpecker’s hole 
in the winter time. The bird has flown. 
I belong to this ’ere dog. He’s a 

80 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


poor dog. I’m all he’s got. If he 
had to pay a license on me I’d have 
to be killed. He’s kind to me. He’s 
the only friend I’ve got.” 

Hiram Blenkinsop riveted his attention 
upon an old warming-pan that hung by 
the fireplace. He hardly looked at the face 
of the minister. 

“How did you come to lose your Self?” 
the latter asked. 

“Married a bad woman and took to 
drink. A man’s Self can stand cold an’ 
hunger an’ shipwreck an’ loss o’ friends 
an’ money an’ any quantity o’ bad luck, 
take it as it comes, but a bad woman 
breaks the works in him an’ stops his 
clock dead. Leastways, it done that 
to me!” 

“She is like an arrow in his liver,” the 
minister quoted. “Mr. Blenkinsop, where 
do you stay nights?” 

“I’ve a shake-down in the little loft 
over the ol’ blacksmith shop on Water 

81 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Street. There are cracks in the gable, an’ 
the snow an’ the wind blows in, an’ the 
place is dark an’ smells o’ coal gas an’ 
horses’ feet, but Christmas an’ I snug up 
together an’ manage to live through the 
winter. In hot weather, we sleep under a 
tree in the ol’ graveyard an’ study 
astronomy. Sometimes, I wish I was there 
for good.” 

‘‘ Wouldn’t you like a bed in a com¬ 
fortable house?” 

“No. I couldn’t take the dog there an’ 
I’d have to git up like other folks.” 

“Would you think that a hardship?” 

“Well, ye see, sir, if ye’re layin’ down 
ye ain’t hungry. Then, too, I likes to 
dilly-dally in bed.” 

“What may that mean?” the minister 
asked. 

“I likes to lay an’ think an’ build air 
castles. ’ ’ 

“What kind of castles?” 

“Well, sir, I’m thinkin’ often o’ a time 

82 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


when I’ll have a grand suit o’ clothes, an’ 
a shiny silk tile on my head, an’ a roll o’ 
bills in my pocket, big enough to choke 
a dog, an’ I’ll be goin’ back to the town 
where I was brought up an’ I'll hire a 
fine team an’ take my ol’ mother out for 
a ride. An’ when we pass by, people will 
be sayin’: ‘That’s Hiram Blenkinsop! 
Don’t you remember him? Born on the 
top floor o’ the ol’ sash mill on the island. 
He’s a multi-millionaire an’ a great man. 
He gives a thousand to the poor every day. 
Sure, he does!’ ” 

“Blenkinsop, I’d like to help you to re¬ 
cover your lost Self and be a useful and re¬ 
spected citizen of this town,” said Mr. Sin¬ 
gleton. “You can do it if you will and I 
can tell you how.” 

Tears began to stream down the cheeks 
of the unfortunate man, who now covered 
his eyes with a big, rough hand. 

“If you will make an honest effort, I’ll 
stand by you. I’ll be your friend through 

83 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


thick and thin,” the minister added. 
“There’s something good in you or you 
wouldn’t be having a dream like that.” 

“Nobody has ever talked to me this 
way,” poor Blenkinsop sobbed. “Nobody 
but you has ever treated me as if I was 
human. ’ ’ 

“I know—I know. It’s a hard old 
world, but at last you’ve found a man who 
is willing to be a brother to you if you 
really want one. ’ ’ 

The poor man rose from the table and 

went to the minister’s side and held out his 
hand. 

“I do want a brother, sir, an’ I’ll do 
anything at all,” he said in a broken 
voice. 

“Then come with me,” the minister 
commanded. “First, I’m going to im¬ 
prove the outside of you. ’ ’ 

When they were ready to leave the 
house, Blenkinsop and his dog had had a 
bath and the former was shaved and in 

84 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


clean and respectable garments from top 
to toe. 

“You look like a new man,” said Mr. 
Singleton. 

“Seems like, I felt more like a proper 
human bein’,” Blenkinsop answered. 

Christmas was scampering up and down 
the hall as if he felt like a new dog. Sud¬ 
denly he discovered the stag’s head 
again and slunk into a dark corner growl¬ 
ing. 

“A bath is a good sort of baptism,” the 
minister remarked. “Here’s an overcoat 
that I haven’t worn for a year. It’s fairly 
warm, too. Now if your Old Self should 
happen to come in sight of you, maybe 
he’d move back into his home. I remem¬ 
ber once that we had a canary bird that 
got away. We hung his cage in one of the 
trees out in the yard with some food in it. 
By and by, we found him singing on the 
perch in his little home. Now, if we put 
some good food in the cage, maybe your 

85 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


bird will come back. Our work has only 
just begun.” 

They went out of the door and crossed 
the street and entered the big stone Con¬ 
gregational Church and sat down together 
in a pew. A soft light came through the 
great jeweled windows above the altar, 
and in the clearstory, and over the 
organ loft. They were the gift of Mr. 
Bing. It was a quiet, restful, beautiful 
place. 

“I used to stand in the pulpit there and 
look down upon a crowd of handsomely 
dressed people,” said Mr. Singleton in a 
low voice. “ ‘There is something wrong 
about this,’ I thought. ‘There’s too much 
respectability here. There are no flannel 
shirts and gingham dresses in the place. I 
can not see half a dozen poor people. I 
wish there was some ragged clothing down 
there in the pews. There isn’t an out-and- 
out sinner in the crowd. Have we set up a 
little private god of our own that cares 

86 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


only for the rich and respectable V I 
asked myself. ‘ This is the place for 
Hiram Blenkinsop and old Bill Lang and 
poor Lizzie Quesnelle, if they only knew it. 
Those are the kind of people that Jesns 
cared most about.’ They’re beginning to 
come to us now and we are glad of it. I 
want to see you here every Sunday after 
this. I want you to think of this place as 
your home. If you really wish to be my 
brother, come with me.” 

Blenkinsop trembled with strange ex¬ 
citement as he went with Mr. Singleton 
down the broad aisle, the dog Christmas 
following meekly. Man and minister knelt 
before the altar. Christmas sat down by 
his master’s side, in a prayerful attitude, 
as if he, too, were seeking help and forgive¬ 
ness. 

“I feel better inside an’ outside,” said 
Blenkinsop as they were leaving the 
church. 

‘ ‘ When you are tempted, there are three 

87 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


words which, may be useful to you. They 
are these, ‘God help me/ ” the minister 
told him. “They are quickly said and I 
have often found them a source of strength 
in time of trouble. I am going to find 
work for you and there’s a room over my 
garage with a stove in it which will make a 
very snug little home for you and Christ¬ 
mas.” 

That evening, as the dog and his master 
were sitting comfortably by the stove in 
their new home, there came a rap at the 
door. In a moment, Judge Crooker en¬ 
tered the room. 

“Mr. Blenkinsop,” said the Judge as he 
held out his hand, “I have heard of your 
new plans and I want you to know that 
I am very glad. Every one will be 
glad. ’ ’ 

When the Judge had gone, Blenkinsop 
put his hand on the dog’s head and asked 
with a little laugh: ‘ ‘ Did ye hear what he 

88 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


said, Christmas? He called me Mister . 
Never done that before, no sir!’’ 

Mr. Blenkinsop sat with his head 
upon his hand listening to the wind that 
whistled mournfully in the chimney. Sud¬ 
denly he shouted: ‘ ‘ Come in! ’ ’ 

The door 0£>ened and there on the 
threshold stood his Old Self. 

It was not at all the kind of a Self one 
would have expected to see. It was, in¬ 
deed, a very youthful and handsome Self— 
the figure of a clear-eyed, gentle-faced boy 
of about sixteen with curly, dark hair 
above his brows. 

Mr. Blenkinsop covered his face and 
groaned. Then he held out his hands with 
an imploring gesture. 

“I know you,” he whispered. “Please 
come in.” 

“Not yet,” the young man answered, 
and his voice was like the wind in the 
chimney. “But I have come to tell you 
that I, too, am glad.” 

89 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Then he vanished. 

Mr. Blenkinsop arose from his chair and 
rubbed his eyes. ' 

“Christmas, oP boy, I’ve been asleep,” 
he muttered. “I guess it’s time we turned 
in!” 


CHAPTER FOUR 


In Which Mr. Israel Sneed and Other 
Working Men Receive a Lesson in 
True Democracy 

N EXT morning, Mr. Blenkinsop went 
to cut wood for tlie Widow Moran. 
The good woman was amazed by his highly 
respectable appearance. 

“God help us! Ye look like a lawyer/’ 
she said. 

“I’m a new man! Cut out the black¬ 
smith shop an’ the booze an’ the bum¬ 
mers.’ ’ 

“May the good God love an’ help ye! I 
heard about it.” 

“Ye did!” 

“Sure I did. It’s all over the town. 
Good news has a lively foot, man. The 
Shepherd clapped his hands when I told 

91 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


him. Ye got to go straight, my laddie 
buck. All eyes are on ye now. Come up 
an’ see the boy. It’s his birthday!” 

Mr. Blenkinsop was deeply moved by the 
greeting of the little Shepherd, who kissed 
his cheek and said that he had often 
prayed for him. 

‘‘If you ever get lonely, come and sit 
with me and we’ll have a talk and a game 
of dominoes,” said the boy. 

Mr. Blenkinsop got strength out of the 
wonderful spirit of Bob Moran and as he 
swung his axe that day, he was happier 
than he had been in many years. Men and 
women who passed in the street said, 
“How do you do, Mr. Blenkinsop? I’m 
glad to see you.” 

Even the dog Christmas watched his 
master with a look of pride and approval. 
Now and then, he barked gleefully and 
scampered up and down the sidewalk. 

The Shepherd was fourteen years old. 
On his birthday, from morning until night, 

92 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


people came to his room bringing little 
gifts to remind him of their affection. No 
one in the village of Bingville was so much 
beloved. Judge Crooker came in the eve¬ 
ning with ice-cream and a frosted cake. 
While he was there, a committee of citi¬ 
zens sought him out to confer with him re¬ 
garding conditions in Bingville. 

‘ 4 There’s more money than ever in the 
place, but there never was so much mis¬ 
ery,” said the chairman of the committee. 

“We have learned that money is not 
the thing that makes happiness,” Judge 
Crooker began. “With every one busy at 
high wages, and the banks overflowing 

with deposits, we felt safe. We ceased to 

% 

produce the necessaries of life in a suffi¬ 
cient quantity. We forgot that the all im¬ 
portant things are food, fuel, clothes and 
comfortable housing—not money. Some of 
ns went money mad. With a feeling of op¬ 
ulence we refused to work at all, save when 
we felt like it. We bought diamond rings 

93 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


and sat by the fire looking at them. The 
roofs began to leak and our plumbing went 
wrong. People going to buy meat found 
the shops closed. Roofs that might have 
been saved by timely repairs will have to 
be largely replaced. Plumbing systems 
have been ruined by neglect. With all its 
money, the town was never so poverty- 
stricken, the people never so wretched.” 

Mr. Sneed, who was a member of the 
committee, slyly turned the ring on his 
finger so that the diamond was concealed. 
He cleared his throat and remarked, “We 
mechanics had more than we could do on 
work already contracted.’ ’ 

“Yes, you worked eight hours a day and 
refused to work any longer. You were 
legally within your rights, but your posi¬ 
tion was ungrateful and even heartless 
and immoral. Suppose there were a baby 
coming at your house and you should call 
for the doctor and he should sav, ‘I’m 
sorry, but I have done my eight hours’ 

94 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


work to-day and I can’t help you.’ Then 
suppose you should offer him a double fee 
and he should say, 'No, thanks, I’m tired. 
I’ve got forty thousand dollars in the bank 
and I don’t have to work when I don’t 
want to.’ 

"Or suppose I were trying a case for 
you and, when my eight hours’ work 
had expired, I should walk out of the court 
and leave your case to take care of itself. 
What do you suppose would become of it! 
Yet that is exactly what you did to my 
pipes. You left them to take care of them¬ 
selves. You men, who use your hands, 
make a great mistake in thinking that you 
are the workers of the country and that 
the rest of us are your natural enemies. In 
America, we are all workers! The idle man 
is a mere parasite and not at heart an 
American. Generally, I work fifteen hours 
a day. 

"This little lad has been knitting 
night and day for the soldiers without 

95 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


liope of reward and has spent his savings 
for yarn. There isn’t a doctor in Bingville 
who isn’t working eighteen hours a day. I 
met a minister this afternoon who hasn’t 
had ten hours of sleep in a week—he’s 
been so busy with the sick, and the dying 
and the dead. He is a nurse, a friend, a 
comforter to any one who needs him. No 
charge for overtime. My God! Are we all 
going money mad! Are you any better 
than he is, or I am, or than these doctors 
are who have been killing themselves with 
overwork? Do you dare to tell me that 
prosperity is any excuse for idleness in 
this land of ours, if one’s help is needed?” 

Judge Crooker’s voice had been calm, 
his manner dignified. But the last sen¬ 
tences had been spoken with a quiet stern¬ 
ness and with his long, bony forefinger 
pointing straight at Mr. Sneed. The other 
members of the committee clapped their 
hands in hearty approval. Mr. Sneed 
smiled and brushed his trousers. 


96 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I guess you’re right,” he said. 
“We’re all oft our balance a little, hut 
what is to be done now?” 

“We must quit our plumbing and car¬ 
pentering and lawyering and banking and 
some of us must quit merchandising and 
sitting in the chimney corner and grab our 
saws and axes and go out into the woods 
and make some fuel and get it hauled into 
town,” said Judge Crooker. “I’ll be 
one of a party to go to-morrow with 
my axe. I haven’t forgotten how to 
chop.” 

The committee thought this a good sug¬ 
gestion. They all rose and started on a 
search for volunteers, except Mr. Sneed. 
He tarried saying to the Judge that he 
wished to consult him on a private matter. 
It was, indeed, just then, a matter which 
could not have been more public although, 
so far, the news of it had traveled in whis¬ 
pers. The Judge had learned the facts 
since his return. 


97 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I hope your plumbing hasn’t gone 
wrong, ’’ he remarked with a smile. 

“No, it’s worse than that,” said Mr. 
Sneed ruefully. 

They bade the little Shepherd good 
night and went down-stairs where the 
widow was still at work with her washing, 
although it was nine o ’clock. 

“Faithful woman!” the Judge ex¬ 
claimed as they went out on the street. 
‘ 6 What would the world do without people 
like that? No extra charge for overtime 
either. ’ ’ 

Then, as they walked along, he cun¬ 
ningly paved the way for what he knew 
was coming. 

“Did you notice the face of that boy?” 
he asked. 

“Yes, it’s a wonderful face,” said Israel 
Sneed. 

“It’s a God’s blessing to see a face like 
that,” the Judge went on. “Only the pure 
in heart can have it. The old spirit of 

98 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


youth looks out of his eyes—the spirit of 
my own youth. When I was fourteen, I 
think that my heart was as pure as his. So 
were the hearts of most of the hoys I 
knew. ’ ’ 

44 It isn’t so now,” said Mr. Sneed. 

“I fear it isn’t,” the Judge answered. 
44 There’s a new look in the faces of the 
young. Every variety of evil is spread be¬ 
fore them on the stage of our little theater. 
They see it while their characters are in 
the making, while their minds are like 
white wax. Everything that touches them 
leaves a mark or a smirch. It addresses 
them in the one language they all under¬ 
stand, and for which no dictionary is 
needed—pictures. The flower of youth 
fades fast enough, God knows, without the 
withering knowledge of evil. They say it’s 
good for the boys and girls to know all 
about life. We shall see!” 

Mr. Sneed sat down with Judge Crooker 

99 


** > 

> > > 
» > 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


in the handsome library of the latter and 
opened his heart. His son Richard, a boy 
of fifteen, and three other lads of the vil¬ 
lage, had been committing small burglar¬ 
ies and storing their booty in a cave in a 
piece of woods on the river bank near the 
village. A constable had secured a confes¬ 
sion and recovered a part of the booty. 
Enough had been found to warrant a 
charge of grand larceny and Elisha Potts, 
whose store had been entered, was clamor¬ 
ing for the arrest of the boys. 

“It reminds me of that picture of the 
Robbers ’ Cave that was on the billboard of 
our school of crime a few weeks ago,” 
said the Judge. “I’m tired enough to lie 
down, but I ? ll go and see Elisha Potts. If 
he’s abed, he’ll have to get up, that’s all. 
There’s no telling what Potts has done or 
may do. Your plumbing is in bad shape, 
Mr. Sneed. The public sewer is backing 
into your cellar and in a case of that kind 
the less delay the better.” 

100 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


He went into the hall and put on his 
coat and gloves and took his cane out of 
the rack. He was sixty-five years of age 
that winter. It was a bitter night when 
even younger men found it a trial to leave 
the comfort of the fireside. Sneed fol¬ 
lowed in silence. Indeed, his tongue was 
shame-bound. For a moment, he knew not 
what to say. 

“I—I’m much o-obliged to you,” he 
stammered as they went out into the cold 
wind. “I—I don’t care what it costs, 
either . 9 9 

The Judge stopped and turned toward 
him. 

4 ‘ Look here, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Money does not 
enter into this proceeding or any motive 
but the will to help a neighbor. In such a 
matter overtime doesn’t count.” 

They walked in silence to the corner. 
There Sneed pressed the Judge’s hand and 
tried to say something, but his voice failed 
him. 


101 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“Have the boys at my office at ten 
o ’clock to-morrow morning. I want to talk 
to them,” said the kindly old Judge as he 
strode away in the darkness. 


CHAPTER FIVE 


In Which J. Patterson Bing Buys a 
Necklace of Pearls 

M EANWHILE, the Bings had been 
having a busy winter in New York. 
J. Patterson Bing had been elected to the 
board of a large bank in Wall Street. His 
fortune had more than doubled in the last 
two years and he was now a considerable 
factor in finance. 

Mrs. Bing had been studying current 
events and French and the English accent 
and other social graces every morning, 
with the best tutors, as she reclined com¬ 
fortably in her bedchamber while Phyllis 
went to sundry shops. Mrs. Crooker had 
once said, “ Mamie Bing has a passion for 
self-improvement.” It was mainly if not 
quite true. 

Phyllis had been “beating the bush” 

103 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


with her mother at teas and dinners and 
dances and theaters and country house 
parties in and about the city. The speed¬ 
ometer on the limousine had doubled its 
mileage since they came to town. They 
were, it would seem, a tireless pair of hunt¬ 
ers. Phyllis’s portrait had appeared in 
the Sunday papers. It showed a face and 
form of unusual beauty. The supple grace 
and classic outlines of the latter were 
touchingly displayed at the dances in 
many a handsome ballroom. At last, they 
had found a promising and most eligible 
candidate in Roger Delane—a handsome 
stalwart youth, a year out of college. His 
father was a well-known and highly suc¬ 
cessful merchant of an old family which, 
for generations, had “belonged”—that is 
to say, it had been a part of the aristocracy 
of Fifth Avenue. 

There could be no doubt of this great 
good luck of theirs—better, indeed, than 
Mrs. Bing had dared to hope for—the 

104 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


young man having seriously confided his 
intentions to J. Patterson. But there was 
one shadow on the glowing prospect; 
Phyllis had suddenly taken a had turn. 
She moped, as her mother put it. She was 
listless and unhappy. She had lost her in¬ 
terest in the chase, so to speak. She had 
little heart for teas and dances and dinner 
parties. One day, her mother returned 
from a luncheon and found her weeping. 
Mrs. Bing went at once to the telephone 
and called for the stomach specialist. He 
came and made a brief examination and 
said that it was all due to rich food and 
late hours. He left some medicine, advised 
a day or two of rest in bed, charged a hun¬ 
dred dollars and went away. They tried 
the remedies, but Phyllis showed no im¬ 
provement. The young man sent Ameri¬ 
can Beauty roses and a graceful note of 
regret to her room. 

“You ought to be very happy/’ said her 
mother. “He is a dear.” 

105 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I know it,” Phyllis answered. “He’s 
just the most adorable creature I ever saw 
in my life. ’ ’ 

“For goodness’ sake! What is the mat¬ 
ter of you? Why don’t you brace up?” 
Mrs. Bing asked with a note of impa¬ 
tience in her tone. “You act like a dead 
fish.” 

Phyllis, who had been lying on the 
couch, rose to a sitting posture and flung 
one of the cushions at her mother, and 
rather swiftly. 

“How can I brace up?” she asked with 
indignation in her eyes. “Don’t you dare 
to scold me.” 

There was a breath of silence in which 
the two looked into each other’s eyes. 
Many thoughts came flashing into the 
mind of Mrs. Bing. Why had the girl 
spoken the word ‘ 1 you ’ ’ so bitterly ? Little 
echoes of old history began to fill the si¬ 
lence. She arose and picked up the cushion 
and threw it on the sofa. 


106 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


‘ 6 What a temper!’’ she exclaimed. 
4 ‘Young lady, yon don’t seem to know that 
these days are very precious for yon. 
They will not come again.” 

Then, in the old fashion of women who 
have suddenly come out of a moment of 
affectionate anger, they fell to weeping in 
each other’s arms. The storm was over 
when they heard the feet of J. Patterson 
Bing in the hall. Phyllis fled into the bath¬ 
room. 

“Hello!” said Mr. Bing as he entered 
the door. “I’ve found out what’s the mat¬ 
ter with Phyllis. It’s nerves. I met the 
great specialist, John Hamilton Gibbs, at 
luncheon to-day. I described the symp¬ 
toms. He says it’s undoubtedly nerves. He 
has any number of cases just like this one 
—rest, fresh air and a careful diet are all 
that’s needed. He says that if he can have 
her for two weeks, he’ll guarantee a cure. 
I’ve agreed to have you take her to his 
sanitarium in the Catskills to-morrow. He 

107 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


lias saddle horses, sleeping balconies, to¬ 
boggan slides, snow-shoe and skating par¬ 
ties and all that.” 

“I think it will be great,” said Phyllis, 
who suddenly emerged from her hiding- 
place and embraced her father. “I’d love 
it! I’m sick of this old town. I’m sure it’s 
just what I need. ’ ’ 

“I couldn’t go to-morrow,” said Mrs. 
Bing. “I simply must go to Mrs. Delane’s 
luncheon.” 

“Then I’ll ask Harriet to go up with 
her,” said J. Patterson. 

Harriet, who lived in a flat on the upper 
west side, was Mr. Bing’s sister. 

Phyllis went to bed dinnerless with a 
headache. Mr. and Mrs. Bing sat for a 
long time over their coffee and cigar¬ 
ettes. 

“It’s something too dreadful that Phyl¬ 
lis should be getting sick just at the wrong 
time,” said the madame. “She has always 
been well. I can’t understand it.” 


108 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


i ‘She’s had a rather strenuous time 
here, ’’ said J. Patterson. 

4 ‘But she seemed to enjoy it until—until 
the right man came along. The very man 
I hoped would like her! Then, suddenly, 
she throws up her hands and keels over. 
It’s too devilish for words.” 

Mr. Bing laughed at his wife’s exaspera¬ 
tion. 

“To me, it’s no laughing matter,” said 
she with a serious face. 

“Perhaps she doesn’t like the boy,” J. 
Patterson remarked. 

Mrs. Bing leaned toward him and whis¬ 
pered: “She adores him!” She held her 
attitude and looked searchingly into her 
husband’s face. 

“Well, you can’t say I did it,” he an¬ 
swered. ‘ ‘ The modern girl is a rather deli¬ 
cate piece of machinery. I think she’ll be 
all right in a week or two. Come, it’s 
time we went to the theater if we ’re 
going.” 


109 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Nothing more was said of the matter. 
Next morning immediately after break¬ 
fast, * 4 Aunt Harriet” set out with Phyllis 
in the big limousine for Doctor Gibbs’ san¬ 
itarium. 

Phyllis found the remedy she needed in 
the ceaseless round of outdoor frolic. Her 
spirit washed in the glowing air found re¬ 
freshment in the sleep that follows weari¬ 
ness and good digestion. Her health im¬ 
proved so visibly that her stay was far 
prolonged. It was the first week of May 
when Mrs. Bing drove up to get her. The 
girl was in perfect condition, it would 
seem. No rustic maid, in all the mountain 
valleys, had lighter feet or clearer eyes or 
a more honest, ruddy tan in her face due 
to the touch of the clean wind. She had 
grown as lithe and strong as a young pan¬ 
ther. 

They were going back to Bingville next 
day. Martha and Susan had been getting 

110 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the house ready. Mrs. Bing had been pre¬ 
paring what she fondly hoped would be *‘a 
lovely surprise" for Phyllis. Roger De¬ 
lane was coming up to spend a quiet week 
with the Bings—a week of opportunity for 
the young people with saddle horses and a 

new steam launch and a Peterborough 

— 

canoe and all pleasant accessories. Then, 
on the twentieth, which was the birthday of 
Phyllis, there was to be a dinner and a 
house party and possibly an announcement 
and a pretty wagging of tongues. Indeed, 
J. Patterson had already bought the wed¬ 
ding gift, a necklace of pearls, and paid a 
hundred thousand dollars for it and put it 
away in his safe. The necklace had pleased 
him. He had seen many jewels, but noth¬ 
in 2: so satisfying—nothing that so well ex- 
pressed his affection for his daughter. He 
might never see its like again. So he 
bought it against the happy day which he 
hoped was near. He had shown it to his 
wife and charged her to make no mention 

111 





THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


of it until ‘ ‘ the time was ripe,’ ’ in his way 
of speaking. 

Mrs. Bing had promised on her word 
and honor to respect the confidence of her 
husband, with all righteous intention, but 
on the very day of their arrival in Bing- 
ville, Sophronia (Mrs. Pendleton) Ames 
called. Sophronia was the oldest and 
dearest friend that Mamie Bing had in the 
village. The latter enjoyed her life in New 
York, but she felt always a thrill at com¬ 
ing back to her big garden and the green 
trees and the ample spaces of Bingville, 
and to the ready, sympathetic confidence 
of Sophronia Ames. She told Sophronia 
of brilliant scenes in the changing spectacle 
of metropolitan life, of the wonderful 
young man and the untimely affliction of 
Phyllis, now happily past. Then, in a 
whisper, while Sophronia held up her right 
hand as a pledge of secrecy, she told of the 
necklace of which the lucky girl had no 
knowledge. Now Mrs. Ames was one of 

112 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the best of women. People were wont to 
speak of her, and rightly, as “the salt of 
the earth. ’ ’ She would do anything possi¬ 
ble for a friend. But Mamie Bing had 
asked too much. Moreover, always it had 
been understood between them that these 
half playful oaths were not to be taken too 
seriously. Of course, “the fish had to be 
fed,” as Judge Crooker had once put it. 
By “the fish,” he meant that curious un¬ 
der-life of the village—the voracious, si¬ 
lent, merciless, cold-blooded thing which 
fed on the sins and follies of men and 
women and which rarely came to the sur¬ 
face to bother any one. 

“The fish are very wise,” Judge 
Crooker used to say. “They know the 
truth about every one and it's well that 
they do. After all, they perform an im¬ 
portant office. There’s many a man and 
woman who think they’ve been fooling 
the fish but they’ve only fooled them¬ 
selves.” 


113 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


And within a day or two, the secrets of 
the Bing family were swimming up and 
down the stream of the under-life of Bing- 
ville. 

Mr. Bing had found a situation in the 
plant which was new to him. The men 
were discontented. Their wages were 
“sky high,” to quote a phrase of one of 
the foremen. Still, they were not satisfied. 
Reports of the fabulous earnings of the 
mill had spread among them. They had 
begun to think that they were not getting 
a fair division of the proceeds of their 
labor. At a meeting of the help, a radical 
speaker had declared that one of the Bing 
women wore a noose of pearls on her neck 
worth half a million dollars. The men 
wanted more pay and less work. A com¬ 
mittee of their leaders had called at Mr. 
Bing’s office with a demand soon after his 
arrival. Mr. Bing had said “no” with a 
bang of his fist on the table. A worker’s 

114 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


meeting was to be held a week later to act 
upon the report of the committee. 

Meanwhile, another cause of worry had 
come or rather returned to him. Again, 
Phyllis had begun to show symptoms of 
the old trouble. Mrs. Bing, arriving at 
dusk from a market trip to Hazelmead 
with Sophronia Ames, had found Phyllis 
lying asleep among the cushions on the 
great couch in the latter’s bedroom. She 
entered the room softly and leaned over 
the girl and looked into her face, now 
turned toward the open window and 
lighted by the fading glow in the western 
sky and relaxed by sleep. It was a sad 
face! There were lines and shadows in it 
which the anxious mother had not seen be¬ 
fore and—had she been crying? Very 
softly, the woman sat down at the girl’s 
side. Darkness fell. Black, menacing 
shadows filled the corners of the room. 
The spirit of the girl betrayed its trouble 
in a sorrowful groan as she slept. Roger 

115 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Delane was coming next day. There was 
every reason why Phyllis should be happy. 
Silently, Mrs. Bing left the room. She met 
Martha in the hall. 

“I shall want no dinner and Mr. Bing is 
dining in Hazelmead,” she whispered. 
i ‘Miss Phyllis is asleep. Don’t disturb 
her.” 

Then she sat down in the darkness of her 
own bedroom alone. 


CHAPTER SIX 


In Which Hiram Blenkinsop Has a 
Number of Adventures 

T HE Shepherd of the Birds had caught 
the plague of influenza in March and 
nearly lost his life with it. Judge Crooker 
and Mr. and Mrs. Singleton and their 
daughter and Father O’Neil and Mrs. 
Ames and Hiram Blenkinsop had taken 
turns in the nursing of the hoy. He had 
come out of it with impaired vitality. 

The rubber tree used to speak to him 
in those days of his depression and say, 
‘‘It will be summer soon.” 

“Oh dear! But the days pass so slow¬ 
ly,” Bob would answer with a sigh. 

Then the round nickel clock would say 
cheerfully, “I hurry them along as fast as 
ever I can.” 


117 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“ Seems as if old Time was losing the 
use of his legs,” said the Shepherd. “I 
wouldn’t wonder if some one had run over 
him with an automobile.” 

“ Everybody is trying to kill Time 
these days, ’ ’ ticked the clock with a merry 
chuckle. 

Bob looked at the clock and laughed. 
“You’ve got some sense,” he declared. 

“Nonsense!” the clock answered. 

“You can talk pretty well,” said the 
boy. 

“I can run too. If I couldn’t, nobody 
would look at me.” 

“The more I look at you the more I 
think of Pauline. It’s a long time since 
she went away,’’ said the Shepherd. “We 
must all pray for her.” 

“Not I,” said the little pine bureau. 
“Do you see that long scratch on my side? 
She did it with a liat pin when I belonged 
to her mother, and she used to keep her 
dolls in my lower drawer.” 

118 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Mr. Bloggs assumed a look of great 
alertness as if he spied the enemy. 
“What’s the use of worrying?” he quoted. 

“You’d better lie down and cover your¬ 
self up or you’ll never live to see her or 
the summer either,” the clock warned the 
Shepherd. 

Then Bob would lie down quickly and 
draw the clothes over his shoulders and 
sing of the Good King Wenceslas and The 
First Noel which Miss Betsy Singleton had 
taught him at Christmas time. 

All this is important only as showing 
how a poor lad, of a lively imagination, 
was wmnt to spend his lonely hours. He 
needed company and knew how to find it. 

Christmas Bay, Judge Crooker had pre¬ 
sented him with a beautiful copy of Ra¬ 
phael’s Madonna and Child. 

“It’s the greatest theme and the great¬ 
est picture this poor world of ours can 
boast of,” said the Judge. “I want you 
to study the look in that mother’s face, not 

119 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


that it is unusual. _ have seen the like of 
it a hundred times. Almost every young 
mother with a child in her arms has that 
look or ought to have it—the most beauti¬ 
ful and mysterious thing in the world. 
The light of that old star which led the 
wise men is in it, I sometimes think. Study 
it and you may hear voices in the sky as 
did the shepherds of old.” 

So the boy acquired the companionship 
of those divine faces that looked down at 
him from the wall near his bed and had 
something to say to him every day. 

Also, another friend—a very humble one 
—had begun to share his confidence. He 
was the little yellow dog, Christmas. He 
had come with his master, one evening in 
March, to spend a night with the sick 
Shepherd. Christmas had lain on the foot 
of the bed and felt the loving caress of the 
boy. He never forgot it. The heart of the 
world, that loves above all things the 
touch of a kindly hand, was in this little 

120 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


creature. Often, when Hiram was walking 
out in the bitter winds, Christmas would 
edge away when his master’s back was 
turned. In a jiffy, he was out of sight and 
making with all haste for the door of the 
Widow Moran. There, he never failed 
to receive some token of the generous 
woman’s understanding of the great need 
of dogs—a bone or a doughnut or a slice 
of bread soaked in meat gravy—and a 
warm welcome from the boy above stairs. 
The boy always had time to pet him and 
play with him. He was never fooling the 
days away with an axe and a saw in the 
cold wind. Christmas admired his mas¬ 
ter’s ability to pick up logs of wood and 
heave them about and to make a great 
noise with an axe but, in cold weather, all 
that was a bore to him. When he had been 
missing, Hiram Blenkinsop found him, 
always, at the day’s end lying comfort¬ 
ably on Bob Moran’s bed. 

May had returned with its warm sun- 

121 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


light. The robins had come back. The 
bine martins had taken possession of the 
bird house. The grass had turned green 
on the garden borders and was now 
sprinkled with the golden glow of dande¬ 
lions. The leaves were coming but Pat 
Crowley was no longer at work in the gar¬ 
den. He had fallen before the pestilence. 
Old Bill Butherford was working there. 
The Shepherd was at the open window 
every day, talking with him and watching 
and feeding the birds. 

Now, with the spring, a new feeling had 
come to Mr. Hiram Blenkinsop. He had 
been sober for months. His Old Self had 
come back and had imparted his youthful 
strength to the man Hiram. He had money 
in the bank. He was decently dressed. 
People had begun to respect him. Every 
day, Hiram was being nudged and worried 
by a new thought. It persisted in tell¬ 
ing him that respectability was like the 

122 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Fourth of July—a very dull thing unless it 
was celebrated. He had been greatly 
pleased with his own growing respectabil¬ 
ity. He felt as if he wanted to take a look 
at it, from a distance, as it were. That 
money in the bank was also nudging and 
calling him. It seemed to be lonely and 
longing for companionship. 

“Come, Hiram Blenkinsop,’’ it used to 
say. 4 * Let’s go off together and get a silk 
hat and a gold headed cane an’ make ’em 
set up an’ take notice. Suppose you should 
die sudden an’ leave me without an 
owner f ’ ’ 

The warmth and joy of the springtime 
had turned his fancy to the old dream. So 
one day, he converted his bank balance 
into “a roll big enough to choke a dog,” 
and took the early morning train to Hazel- 
mead, having left Christmas at the Widow 
Moran’s. 

In the mill city he bought a high silk hat 
and a gold headed cane and a new suit of 

123 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


clothes and a boiled shirt and a high col¬ 
lar and a red necktie. It didn’t matter to 
him that the fashion and fit of his gar¬ 
ments were not quite in keeping with the 
silk hat and gold headed cane. There 
were three other items in the old dream of 
splendor—the mother, the prancing team, 
and the envious remarks of the onlookers. 
His mother was gone. Also there were no 
prancing horses in Hazelmead, but he 
could hire an automobile. 

In the course of his celebration he asked 
a lady, whom he met in the street, if she 
would kindly be his mother for a day. He 
meant well but the lady, being younger 
than Hiram and not accustomed to such 
familiarity from strangers, did not feel 
complimented by the question. They fled 
from each other. Soon, Hiram bought a 
big custard pie in a bake-shop and had it 
cut into smallish pieces and, having pur¬ 
chased pie and plate, went out upon the 
street with it. He ate what he wanted of 

124 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the pie and generously offered the rest of 
it to sundry people who passed him. It 
was not impertinence in Hiram; it was 
pure generosity—a desire to share his 
riches, flavored, in some degree, by a feel¬ 
ing of vanity. It happened that Mr. J. 
Patterson Bing came along and received a 
tender of pie from Mr. Blenkinsop. 

“No!” said Mr. Bing, with that old ham¬ 
mer whack in his voice which aroused bit¬ 
ter memories in the mind of Hiram. 

That tone was a great piece of impru¬ 
dence. There was a menacing gesture and 
a rapid succession of footsteps on the 
pavement. Mr. Bing’s retreat was not, 
however, quite swift enough to save him. 
The pie landed on his shoulder. In a mo¬ 
ment, Hiram was arrested and marching 
toward the lockup while Mr. Bing went to 
the nearest drug store to be cleaned and 
scoured. 

A few days later Hiram Blenkinsop 

125 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


arrived in Bingville. Mr. Singleton met 
him on the street and saw to his deep re¬ 
gret that Hiram had been drinking. 

“I’ve made np my mind that religion is 
good for some folks, but it won’t do for 
me,” said the latter. 

“Why not?” the minister asked. 

“I can’t afford it.” 

“Have yon found religion a luxury?” 
Mr. Singleton asked. 

“It’s grand while it lasts, but it’s like 
p’ison gettin’ over it,” said Hiram. “I 
feel kind o’ ruined.” 

“You look it,” said the minister, with a 
glance at Hiram’s silk hat and soiled cloth¬ 
ing. “A long spell of sobriety is hard on 
a man if he quits it sudden. You’ve had 
your day of trial, my friend. We all have 
to be tried soon or late. People begin to 
say, ‘At last he’s come around all right. 
He’s a good fellow.’ And the Lord says: 
‘Perhaps he’s worthy of better things. I’ll 
try him and see. ’ 


126 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“That’s His way of pushing people 
along, Hiram. He doesn’t want them to 
stand still. You’ve had your trial and 
failed, hut you mustn’t give up. When 
your fun turns into sorrow, as it will, come 
back to me and we ’ll try again. ’ ’ 

Hiram sat dozing in a corner of the bar¬ 
room of the Eagle Hotel that day. He had 
been ashamed to go to his comfortable 
room over the garage. He did not feel en¬ 
titled to the hospitality of Mr. Singleton. 
Somehow, he couldn’t bear the thought of 
going there. His new clothes and silk hat 
were in a state which excited the derision 
of small boys and audible comment from 
all observers while he had been making 
his way down the street. His money was 
about gone. The barkeeper had refused 
to sell him any more drink. In the early 
dusk he went out-of-doors. It was almost 
as warm as midsummer and the sky was 
clear. He called at the door of the Widow 

127 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Moran for Ills dog. In a moment, Christ¬ 
mas came down from the Shepherd’s room 
and greeted his master with fond affec¬ 
tion. The two went away together. They 
walked up a deserted street and around to 
the old graveyard. When it was quite 
dark, they groped their way through the 
weedy, briered aisles, between moss-cov¬ 
ered toppling stones, to their old nook 
under the ash tree. There Hiram made a 
bed of boughs, picked from the evergreens 
that grew in the graveyard, and lay down 
upon it under his overcoat with the dog 
Christmas. He found it impossible to 
sleep, however. When he closed his eyes 
a new thought began nudging him. 

It seemed to be saying, “What are you 
going to do now", Mr. Hiram Blenkinsop ? 9 9 

He was pleased that it seemed to say Mr. 
Hiram Blenkinsop. He lay for a long 
time looking up at the starry moonlit sky, 
and at the marble, weather-spotted angel 
on the monument to the Reverend Thad- 

128 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


dens Sneed, who had been lying there, 
among the rude forefathers of the village, 
since 1806. Suddenly the angel began to 
move. Mr. Blenkinsop observed with 
alarm that it had discovered him and that 
its right forefinger was no longer directed 
toward the sky but was pointing at his 
face. The angel had assumed the look and 
voice of his Old Self and was saying: 

“I don’t see why angels are always cut 
in marble an’ set up in graveyards with 
nothing to do but point at the sky. It’s 
a cold an’ lonesome business. Why don’t 
you give me a job?” 

His Old Self vanished and, as it did so, 
the spotted angel fell to coughing and 
sneezing. It coughed and sneezed so 
loudly that the sound went echoing in the 
distant sky and so violently that it reeled 
and seemed to be in danger of falling. Mr. 
Blenkinsop awoke with a rude jump so that 
the dog Christmas barked in alarm. It 
was nothing but the midnight train from 

129 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


the south pulling out of the station which 
was near the old graveyard. The spotted 
angel stood firmly in its place and was 
pointing at the sky as usual. 

It was probably an hour or so later, 
when Mr. Blenkinsop was awakened by 
the barking of the dog Christmas. He 
quieted the dog and listened. He heard a 
sound like that of a baby crying. It awoke 
tender memories in the mind of Hiram 
Blenkinsop. One very sweet recollection 
was about all that the barren, bitter years 
of his young manhood had given him 
worth having. It was the recollection of a 
little child which had come to his home in 
the first year of his married life. 

“She lived eighteen months and three 
days and four hours/ ’ he used to say, in 
speaking of her, with a tender note in his 
voice. 

Almost twenty years, she had been lying 
in the old graveyard near the ash tree. 
Since then the voice of a child crying 

130 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


always halted liis steps. It is probable 
that, in her short life, the neglected, 
pathetic child Pearl—that having been her 
name—had protested much against a 
plentiful lack of comfort and sympathy. 

So Mr. Blenkinsop’s agitation at the 
sound of a baby crying somewhere near 
him, in the darkness of the old graveyard, 
was quite natural and will be readily un¬ 
derstood. He rose on his elbow and lis¬ 
tened. Again he heard that small, appeal¬ 
ing voice. 

“By thunder! Christmas,” he whis¬ 
pered. “If that ain’t like Pearl when she 
was a little, teeny, weeny thing no big¬ 
ger ’n a pint o ’ beer! Say it is, sir, sure as 
sin! ’ ’ 

He scrambled to his feet, suddenly, for 
now, also, he could distinctly hear the 
voice of a woman crying. He groped his 
way in the direction from which the sound 
came and soon discovered the woman. She 
was kneeling on a grave with a child in 

131 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


her arms. Her grief touched the heart of 
the man. 

“Who be you?” he asked. 

“I’m cold, and my baby is sick, and I 
have no friends, ’ ’ she sobbed. 

“Yes, ye have!’’ said Hiram Blenkinsop. 
“I don’t care who ye be. I’m yer friend 
and don’t ye fergit it.” 

There was a reassuring note in the voice 
of Hiram Blenkinsop. Its gentleness had 
in it a quiver of sympathy. She felt it and 
gave to him—an unknown, invisible man, 
with just a quiver of sympathy in his voice 
—her confidence 

If ever any one was in need of sympathy, 
she was at that moment. She felt that she 
must speak out to some one. So keenly 
she felt the impulse that she had been 
speaking to the stars and the cold grave¬ 
stones. Here at last was a human being 
with a quiver of sympathy in his voice. 

“I thought I would come home, but 

132 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


when I got here I was afraid,” the girl 
moaned. ‘ ‘ I wish I could die.’ ’ 

“No, ye don’t neither!” said Hiram 
Blenkinsop. “Sometimes, I’ve thought 
that I hadn’t no friends an’ wanted to die, 
but I was just foolin’ myself. To be sure, 
I ain’t had no baby on my hands but I’ve 
had somethin’ just as worrisome, I guess. 
Folks like you an’ me has got friends 
a-plenty if we’ll only give ’em a chance. 
I’ve found that out. You let me take that 
baby an’ come with me. I know where 
you’ll git the glad hand. You just come 
right along with me.” 

The unmistakable note of sincerity was 
in the voice of Hiram Blenkinsop. She 
gave the baby into his arms. He held it to 
his breast a moment thinking of old times. 
Then he swung his arms like a cradle say¬ 
ing: 

“You stop your hollerin’—ye gol’darn 
little skeezucks! It ain’t decent to go on 
that way in a graveyard an’ ye ought to 

133 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


know it. Be ye tryin’ to wake the 
dead!” 

The baby grew quiet and finally fell 
asleep. 

1 1 Come on, now,” said Hiram, with the 
baby lying against his breast. “You an* 
me are goin’ out o’ the past. I know a 
little house that’s next door to Heaven. 
They say ye can see Heaven from its win¬ 
ders. It’s where the good Shepherd lives. 
Christmas an’ I know the place—don’t we, 
ol’ boy? Come right along. There ain’t no 
kind o’ doubt o’ what they’ll say to us.” 

The young woman followed him out of 
the old graveyard and through the dark, 
deserted streets until they came to the cot¬ 
tage of the Widow Moran. They passed 
through the gate into Judge Crooker’s 
garden. Under the Shepherd’s window, 
Hiram Blenkinsop gave the baby to its 
mother and with his hands to his mouth 
called “Bob!” in a loud whisper. Sud- 

134 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


denly a robin sounded his alarm. In¬ 
stantly, the Shepherd’s room was full of 
light. In a moment, he was at the window 
sweeping the garden paths and the tree 
tops with his search-light. It fell on the 
sorrowful figure of the young mother with 
the child in her arms and stopped. She 
stood looking up at the window bathed in 
the flood of light. It reminded the Shep¬ 
herd of that glow which the wise men saw 
in the manger at Bethlehem. 

‘ 4 Pauline Baker! ’ ’ he exclaimed. ‘ ‘ Have 
you come back or am I dreaming? It’s 
you—thanks to the Blessed Virgin! It’s 
you! Come around to the door. My 
mother will let you in.” 

It was a warm welcome that the girl re¬ 
ceived in the little home of the Widow 
Moran. Many words of comfort and good 
cheer were spoken in the next hour or so 
after which the good woman made tea and 
toast and broiled a chop and served them 
in the Shepherd’s room. 

135 


i 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“God love ye, child! So he was a mar¬ 
ried man—bad ’cess to him an’ the likes 
o ’ him! ’ ’ she said as she came in with the 
tray. “Mother o’ Jesns! What a wicked 
world it is! ” 

The prudent dog Christmas, being 
afraid of babies, hid under the Shep¬ 
herd’s bed, and Hiram Blenkinsop lay 
down for the rest of the night on the 
lounge in the cottage kitchen. 

An hour after daylight, when the Judge 
was walking in his garden, he wondered 
why the widow and the Shepherd were 
sleeping so late. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


In Which High Voltage Develops in the 

Conversation 

T T WAS a warm, bright May day. 
A- There was not a cloud in the sky. 
Roger Delane had arrived and the Bings 
were giving a dinner that evening. The 
best people of Hazelmead were coming 
over in motor-cars. Phyllis and Roger had 
had a long ride together that day on the 
new Kentucky saddle horses. Mrs. Bing 
had spent the morning in Hazelmead and 
had stayed to lunch with Mayor and Mrs. 
Stacy. She had returned at four and cut 
some flowers for the table and gone to lier 
room for an hour’s rest when the young 
people returned. She was not yet asleep 
when Phyllis came into the big bedroom. 
Mrs. Bing lay among the cushions on her 

137 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


couch. She partly rose, tumbled the cush¬ 
ions into a pile and leaned against them. 

“Heavens! I’m tired!” she exclaimed. 
“These women in Hazelmead hang on to 
one like a lot of hungry cats. They all 
want money for one thing or another—Red 
Cross or Liberty bonds or fatherless chil¬ 
dren or tobacco for the soldiers or books 
for the library. My word! I’m broke and 
it seems as if each of my legs hung by a 
thread. ’ ’ 

Phyllis smiled as she stood looking down 
at her mother. 

“How beautiful you look!” the fond 
mother exclaimed. “If he didn’t propose 
to-day, lie’s a chump.” 

“But he did,” said Phyllis. “I tried to 
keep him from it, but he just would pro¬ 
pose in spite of me.” 

The girl’s face was red and serious. She 
sat down in a chair and began to remove 
her hat. Mrs. Bing rose suddenly, and 
stood facing Phyllis. 

138 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I thought you loved him,” she said 
with a look of surprise. 

“So I do,” the girl answered. 

6 6 What did you say ? ’ ’ 

“I said no.” 

“What!” 

“I refused him!” 

“For God’s sake, Phyllis! Do you 
think you can afford to play with 
a man like that? He won’t stand 
for it.” 

“Let him sit for it then and, mother, 
you might as well know, first as last, that 
I am not playing with him.” 

There was a calm note of firmness in the 
voice of the girl. She was prepared for 
this scene. She had known it was coming. 
Her mother was hot with irritating aston¬ 
ishment. The calmness of the girl in sud¬ 
denly beginning to dig a grave for this 
dear ambition—rich with promise—in the 
very day when it had come submissively to 
their feet, stung like the tooth of a ser- 

139 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


pent. She stood very erect and said with 
an icy look in her face: 

“You young upstart! What do you 
mean?” 

There was a moment of frigid silence in 
which both of the women began to turn 
cold. Then Phyllis answered very calmly 
as she sat looking down at the bunch of 
violets in her hand: 

“It means that I am married, mother.” 

Mrs. Bing’s face turned red. There was 
a little convulsive movement of the 
muscles around her mouth. She folded her 
arms on her breast, lifted her chin a bit 
higher and asked in a polite tone, although 
her words fell like fragments of cracked 
ice: 

“Married! To whom are you married?” 

‘ 4 To Gordon King. ’ ’ 

Phyllis spoke casually as if he were a 
piece of ribbon that she had bought at a 
store. 

Mrs. Bing sank into a chair and covered 

140 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


her face with her hands for half a moment. 
Suddenly she picked up a slipper that lay 
at her feet and flung it at the girl. 

“My God!” she exclaimed. “What a 
nasty liar you are!” 

It was not ladylike hut, at that moment, 
the lady was temporarily absent. 

“Mother, I’m glad you say that,” the 
girl answered still very calmly, although 
her Angers trembled a little as she felt the 
violets, and her voice was not quite steady. 
‘ ‘ It shows that I am not so stupid at home 
as I am at school.” 

The girl rose and threw down the violets 
and her mild and listless manner. A look 
of defiance filled her face and figure. 
Mrs. Bing arose, her eyes aglow with 
anger. 

“I’d like to know what you mean,” she 
said under her breath. 

“I mean that if I am a liar, you taught 
me how to be it. Ever since I was knee- 
high, you have been teaching me to deceive 

141 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


my father. I am not going to do it any 
longer. I am going to find my father and 
tell him the truth. I shall not wait another 
minute. He will give me better advice 
than you have given, I hope . 9 9 

The words had fallen rapidly from her 
lips and, as the last one was spoken, she 
hurried out of the room. Mrs. Bing threw 
herself on the couch where she lay with 
certain hitter memories, until the new 
maid came to tell her that it was time to 
dress. 

She was like one reminded of mortality 
after coming out of ether. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lord! ’ ’ she murmured wearily. 61 1 
feel like going to bed! How can I live 
through that dinner? Please bring me 
some brandy.” 

Phyllis learned that her father was at 
his office whither she proceeded without 
a moment’s delay. She sent in word that 
she must see him alone and as soon as pos¬ 
sible. He dismissed the men with whom 


142 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


lie had been talking and invited her into 
his private office. 

‘‘Well, girl, J guess I know what is on 
your mind,” he said. “Go ahead.’’ 

Phyllis began to cry. 

“All right! You do the crying and I’ll 
do the talking,” he went on. “I feel like 
doing the crying myself, but if you want 
the job I’ll resign it to you. Perhaps you 
can do enough of that for both of us. I 
began to smell a rat the other day. So I 
sent for Gordon King. He came here this 
morning. I had a long talk with him. He 
told me the truth. Why didn’t you tell me ? 
What’s the good of having a father unless 
you use him at times when his counsel is 
likely to be worth having? I would have 
made a good father, if I had had half a 
chance. I should like to have been your 
friend and confidant in this important en¬ 
terprise. I could have been a help to you. 
But, somehow, I couldn’t get on the board 
of directors. You and your mother have 

143 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


been running the plant all by yourselves 
and I guess it’s pretty near bankrupt. 
Now, my girl, there’s no use crying over 
spilt tears. Gordon King is not the man 
of my choice, but we must all take hold 
and try to build him up. Perhaps we can 
make him pay.” 

“I do not love him,” Phyllis sobbed. 

“You married him because you wanted 
to. You were not coerced!” 

“No, sir.” 

“I’m sorry, but you ’ll have to take your 
share of the crow with the rest of us,” he 
went on, with a note of sternness in his 
tone. “My girl, when I make a contract 
I live up to it and I intend that you shall 
do the same. You’ll have to learn to love 
and cherish this fellow, if he makes it 
possible. I’ll have no welching in my 
family. You and your mother believe in 
woman’s rights. I don’t object to that, 
but you mustn’t think that you have the 
right to break your agreements unless 

144 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


there’s a good reason for it. My girl, the 
marriage contract is the most binding and 
sacred of all contracts. I want yon to do 
your best to make this one a success.” 

There was the tinkle of the telephone 
bell. Mr. Bing put the receiver to his ear 
and spoke into the instrument as follows: 

“Yes, she’s here! I knew all the facts 
before she told me. Mr. Delane? He’s 
on his way back to New York. Left on 
the six-ten. Charged me to present his re¬ 
grets and farewells to you and Phyllis. I 
thought it best for him to know and to go. 
Yes, we’re coming right home to dress. 
Mr. King will take Mr. Delane’s place at 
the table. We’ll make a clean breast of 
the whole business. Brace up and eat your 
crow with a smiling face. I ’ll make a little 
speech and present Mr. and Mrs. King to 
our friends at the end of it. Oh, now, cut 
out the sobbing and leave this unfinished 
business to me and don’t worry. We’ll 
be home in three minutes.” 

145 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


In Which Judge Crooker Delivers a Few 

Opinions 

HE pride of Bingville liad fallen in 



-A- the dust! It had arisen and gone 
on with soiled garments and lowered head. 
It had suffered derision and defeat. It 
could not ever be the same again. Sneed 
and Snodgrass recovered, in a degree, from 
their feeling of opulence. Sneed had be¬ 
come polite, industrious and obliging. 
Snodgrass and others had lost heavily in 
stock speculation through the failure of a 
broker in Ilazelmead. They went to work 
with a will and without the haughty in¬ 
dependence which, for a time, had char¬ 
acterized their attitude. The spirit of the 
Little Shepherd had entered the hearts and 
home of Emanuel Baker and his wife. 


146 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Pauline and tlie baby were there and being 
tenderly loved and cared for. But what 
humility had entered that home! Phyllis 
and her husband lived with her parents, 
Gordon having taken a humble place in 
the mill. He worked early and late. The 
Bings had made it hard for him, finding it 
difficult to overcome their resentment, but 
he stood the gaff, as they say, and won the 
regard of J. Patterson although Mrs. Bing 
could never forgive him. 

In June, there had been a public meeting 
in the Town Hall addressed by Judge 
Crooker and the Reverend Mr. Singleton. 
The Judge had spoken of the grinding of 
the mills of God that was going on the 
world over. 

‘ ‘ Our civilization has had its time of trial 
not yet ended,” he began. “Its enemies 
have been busy in every city and village. 
Not only in the cities and villages of 
France and Belgium have they been busy, 
but in those of our own land. The Goths 

147 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


and Vandals have invaded Bingville. 
They have been destroying the things we 
loved. The false god is in onr midst. 
Many here, within the sound of my voice, 
have a god suited to their own tastes and; 
sins—an obedient, tractable, boneless god. 
It is my deliberate opinion that the dances 
and costumes and moving pictures we have 
seen in Bingville are doing more injury 
to Civilization than all the guns of Ger¬ 
many. My friends, you can do nothing 
worse for my daughter than deprive her 
of her modesty and I would rather, far 
rather, see you slay my son than destroy 
his respect for law and virtue and decency. 

“The jazz band is to me a sign of spir¬ 
itual decay. It is a step toward the jungle. 
I hear in it the beating of the tom-tom. It 
is not music. It is the barbaric yawp of 
sheer recklessness and daredevilism, and 
it is evervwhere. 

“Even in our economic life we are danc¬ 
ing to the jazz band and with utter reck- 

148 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


lessness. American labor is being more 
and more absorbed in the manufacture of 
luxuries—embroidered frocks and elabo¬ 
rate millinery and limousines and lan- 
daulets and rich upholstery and cord tires 
and golf courses and sporting goods and 
great country houses—so that there is not 
enough labor to provide the comforts and 
necessities of life. 

4 ‘The tendency of all this is to put the 
stamp of luxury upon the commonest needs 
of man. The time seems to be near when 
a boiled egg and a piece of buttered bread 
will be luxuries and a family of children 
an unspeakable extravagance. Let us face 
the facts. It is up to Vanity to moderate 
its demands upon the industry of man. 
What we need is more devotion to simple 
living and the general welfare. In plain 
old-fashioned English we need the religion 
and the simplicity of our fathers. ’ ’ 

Later, in June, a strike began in the big 

149 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


plant of J. Patterson Bing. The men de¬ 
manded higher pay and shorter days. 
They were working under a contract but 
that did not seem to matter. In a fight 
with ‘ ‘ scabs ’ ’ and Pinkerton men they de¬ 
stroyed a part of the plant. Even the life 
of Mr. Bing was threatened! The summer 
was near its end when J. Patterson Bing 
and a committee of the labor union met in 
the office of Judge Crooker to submit their 
differences to that impartial magistrate 
for adjustment. The Judge listened pa¬ 
tiently and rendered his decision. It was 
accepted. 

When the papers were signed, Mr. Bing 
rose and said, “Your Honor, there’s one 
thing I want to say. I have spent most of 
my life in this town. I have built up a 
big business here and doubled the popula¬ 
tion. I have built comfortable homes for 
my laborers and taken an interest in the 
education of their children, and built a 
library where any one could find the best 

150 


THE* PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


books to read. I have built playgrounds 
for the children of the working people. If 
I have heard of any case of need, I have 
done my best to relieve it. I have always 
been ready to hear complaints and treat 
them fairly. My men have been generously 
paid and yet they have not hesitated to 
destroy my property and to use guns and 
knives and clubs and stones to prevent the 
plant from filling its contracts and to force 
their will upon me. How do you explain it? 
What have I done or failed to do that has 
caused this bitterness?” 

“Mr. Bing, I am glad that you ask me 
that question,” the old Judge began. “It 
gives me a chance to present to you, and 
to these men who work for you, a convic¬ 
tion which has grown out of impartial ob¬ 
servation of your relations with each other. 

“First, I want to say to you, Mr. Bing, 
that I regard you as a good citizen. Your 
genius and generosity have put this com¬ 
munity under great obligation. Now, in 

151 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


heading toward the hidden cause of your 
complaint, I beg to ask you a question at 
the outset. Do you know that unfortunate 
son of the Widow Moran known as the 
Shepherd of the Birds ? ’’ 

“I have heard much about him,” Mr. 
Bing answered. 

“Do you know him?” 

“No. I have had letters from him ac¬ 
knowledging favors now and then, but I 
do not know him. ’ ’ 

“We have hit at once the source of your 
trouble,” the Judge went on. “The Shep¬ 
herd is a representative person. He stands 
for the poor and the unfortunate in this 
village. You have never gone to see him 
because—well, probably it was because 
you feared that the look of him would dis¬ 
tress you. The thing which would have 
helped and inspired and gladdened his 
heart more than anything else would have 
been the feel of your hand and a kind and 
cheering word and sympathetic counsel. 

152 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Under those circumstances, I think I may 
say that it was your duty as a neighbor and 
a human being to go to see him. Instead 
of that you sent money to him. Now, he 
never needed money. In the kindest spirit, 
I ask you if that money you sent to him 
in the best of good-will was not, in fact, 
a species of bribery? Were you not, in¬ 
deed, seeking to buy immunity from a duty 
incumbent upon you as a neighbor and a 
human being 

Mr. Bing answered quickly, “There are 
plenty of people who have nothing else to 
do but carry cheer and comfort to the 
unfortunate. I have other things to 

do.” 

“That, sir, does not relieve you of the 
liabilities of a neighbor and a human being, 
in my view. If your business has turned 
you into a shaft or a cog-wheel, it has 
done you a great injustice. I fear that it 
has been your master—that it has prac¬ 
tised upon you a kind of despotism. You 

153 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 

would better get along with less—far less 
business than suffer such a fate. I don’t 
want to hurt you. We are looking for the 
cause of a certain result and I can help you 
only by being frank. With all your gen¬ 
erosity you have never given your heart 
to this village. Some unkind people have 
gone so far as to say that you have no 
heart. You can not prove it with money 
that you do not miss. Money is good but 
it must be warmed with sympathy and 
some degree of sacrifice. Has it never oc¬ 
curred to you that the warm hand and 
the cheering word in season are more, 
vastly more, than money in the impor¬ 
tant matter of making good-will? Uncon¬ 
sciously, you have established a line and 
placed yourself on one side of it and the 
people on the other. Broadly speaking, 
you are capital and the rest are labor. 
Whereas, in fact, you are all working men. 
Some of the rest have come to regard you 
as their natural enemy. They ought to 

154 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


regard you as their natural friend. Two 
kinds of despotism have prevented it. 
First, there is the despotism of your busi¬ 
ness in making you a slave—so much of a 
slave that you haven’t time to he human; 
second, there is the despotism of the labor 
union in discouraging individual excel¬ 
lence, in demanding equal pay for the 
faithful man and the slacker, and in deny¬ 
ing the right of free men to labor when 
and where they will. All this is tyranny as 
gross and un-American as that of George 
the Third in trying to force his will upon 
the colonies. If America is to survive, we 
must set our faces against every form of 
tyranny. The remedy for all our trouble 
and bitterness is real democracy which is 
nothing more or less than the love of men 
—the love of justice and fair play for each 
and all. 

“You men should know that every strike 
increases the burdens of the people. Every 
day your idleness lifts the price of their 

155 




THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


necessities. Idleness is just another form 
of destruction. Why could you not have 
listened to the counsel of Reason in June 
instead of in September, and thus have 
saved these long months of loss and hard¬ 
ship and bitter violence? It was because 
the spirit of Tyranny had entered your 
heart and put your judgment in chains. 
It had blinded you to honor also, for your 
men were working under contract. If the 
union is to command the support of honest 
men, it must be honest. It was Tyranny 
that turned the treaty with Belgium into 
a scrap of paper. That kind of a thing 
will not do here. Let me assure you that 
Tyranny has no right to be in this land 
of ours. You remind me of the Prodigal 
Son who had to know the taste of husks 
and the companionship of swine before he 
came to himself. Do you not know that 
Tyranny is swine and the fodder of swine! 
It is simply human hoggishness. 

“I have one thing more to say and I am 

156 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


finished. Mr. Bing, some time ago you 
threw up your religion without realizing 
the effect that such an act would be likely 
to produce on this community. You are, 
no doubt, aware that many followed your 
example. I’ve got no preaching to do. I’m 
just going to quote you a few words from 
an authority no less respectable than 
George Washington himself. Our history 
has made one fact very clear, namely, 
that he was a wise and far-seeing 
man.” 

Judge Crooker took from a shelf, John 
Marshall’s “Life of Washington,” and 
read: 

“ ‘It is substantially true that virtue or 
morality is a necessary spring of popular 
government and let us, with caution, in¬ 
dulge the supposition that morality can be 
maintained without religion. 

“ ‘Let it simply be ashed ivhere is the 
security for property, for reputation, for 
life, if a sense of religious obligation de- 

157 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


sert the oaths which are the instruments 
of investigation in courts of justiceV 

“Let me add, on my own account, tliat 
tlie treatment you receive from your men 
will vary according to tlieir respect for 
morality and religion. 

“They could manage very well with an 
irreligious master, for you are only one. 
But an irreligious mob is a different and 
highly serious matter, believe me. Away 
back in the seventeenth century, John 
Dryden wrote a wise sentence. It was 
this: 

“ l I have heard, indeed, of some very 
virtuous persons who have ended unfor¬ 
tunately hut never of a virtuous nation; 
Providence is engaged too deeply when 
the cause becomes general. 

“ ‘If virtue is the price of a nation’s 
life, let us try to keep our own nation 
virtuous.’ ” 

Mr. Bing and his men left the Judge’s 

158 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


office in a thoughtful mood. The next day, 
Judge Crooker met the mill owner on the 
street. 

4 ‘Judge, I accept your verdict/’ said the 
latter. “I fear that I have been rather 
careless. It didn’t occur to me that my 
example would be taken so seriously. I 
have been a prodigal and have resolved to 
return to my father’s house.” 

“Ho, servants!” said the Judge, with a 
smile. “Bring forth the best robe and put 
it on him and put a ring on his finger and 
shoes on his feet and bring hither the 
fatted calf and kill it and let us eat and 
be merry.” 

“We shall have to postpone the celebra¬ 
tion,” said Mr. Bing. “I have to go to 
New York to-night, and I sail for England 
to-morrow. But I shall return before 
Christmas.” 

A little farther on Mr. Bing met Hiram 
Blenkinsop. The latter had a plank on his 
shoulder. 


159 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I’d like to have a word with you,” 

said the mill owner as he took hold of the 

\ 

plank and helped Hiram to ease it down. 
“I hear many good things about you, Mr. 
Blenkinsop. I fear that we have all mis¬ 
judged you. If I have ever said or done 
anything to hurt your feelings, I am sorry 
for it.” 

Hiram Blenkinsop looked with astonish¬ 
ment into the eyes of the millionaire. 

“I—I guess I ain’t got you placed right 
—not eggzac’ly,” said he. “Some folks 
ain’t as good as they look an’ some ain’t 
as bad as they look. I wouldn’t wonder 
if we was mostly purty much alike, come 
to shake us down.” 

“Let’s be friends, anyhow,” said Mr. 
Bing. “If there’s anything I can do for 
you, let me know.” 

That evening, as he sat by the stove in 
his little room over the garage of Mr. 
Singleton with his dog Christmas lying 
beside him, Mr. Blenkinsop fell asleep 

160 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


and awoke suddenly with a wild yell of 
alarm. 

“What’s the matter?” a voice inquired. 

Mr. Blenkinsop tiirned and saw his Old 
Self standing in the doorway. 

“Nothin’ hut a dream,” said Blenkin¬ 
sop as he wiped his eyes. “Dreamed I 
had a dog with a terrible thirst on him. 
Used to lead him around with a rope an’ 
when we come to a brook he’d drink it 
dry. Suddenly I felt an awful jerk on 
the rope that sent me up in the air an’ I 
looked an’ see that the dog had turned into 
an elephant an’ that he was goin’ like Sam 
Hill, an’ that I was hitched to him and 
couldn’t let go. Once in a while he’d stop 
an’ drink a river dry an’ then he’d lay 
down an’ rest. Everybody was scared o’ 
the elephant an’ so was I. An’ I’d try to 
cut the rope with my jack knife but it 
wouldn’t cut—it was so dull. Then all of 
a sudden he’d start on the run an’ twitch 
me over the hills an’ mountings, an’ me 

161 


J 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


takin’ steps a mile long an* scared to 
death.’ ’ 

“The fact is you’re hitched to an ele¬ 
phant,” his Old Self remarked. “The 
first thing to do is to sharpen your jack 
knife.” 

“It’s Night an’ Silence that sets him 
goin’,” said Blenkinsop. “When they 
come he’s apt to start for the nighest 
river. The old elephant is beginnin’ to 
move. ’ ’ 

Blenkinsop put on his hat and hurried 
out of the door. 


CHAPTER NINE 


Which Tells of a Merry Christmas Day 
in the Little Cottage of the 
Widow Moran 


N IGHT and Silence are a stern test of 
wisdom. For years, the fun loving, 
chattersome Blenkinsop had been their 
enemy and was not yet at peace with them. 
But Night and Silence had other enemies 
in the village—ancient and inconsolable 
enemies, it must be said. They were the 
cocks of Bingville. Every morning they 
fell to and drove Night and Silence out of 
the place and who shall say that they did 
not save it from being hopelessly over¬ 
whelmed. Day was their victory and they 
knew how to achieve it. Noise was the 
thing most needed. So they roused the 
people and called up the lights and set the 
griddles rattling. The great, white cock 

163 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


that roosted near the window in the Widow 
Moran’s hen-house watched for the first 
sign of weakness in the enemy. When it 
came, he sent forth a bolt of sound that 
tumbled Silence from his throne and shook 
the foundations of the great dome of Night. 
It rang over the housetops and through 
every street and alley in the village. That 
started the battle. Silence tried in vain 
to recover his seat. In a moment, every 
cock in Bingville was hurling bombs at 
him. Immediately, Darkness began to 
grow pale with fright. Seeing the fate of 
his ally, he broke camp and fled westward. 
Soon the field was clear and every proud 
cock surveyed the victory with a solemn 
sense of large accomplishment. 

The loud victorious trumpets sounding 
in the garden near the window of the 
Shepherd awoke him that Christmas 
morning. The dawn light was on the 
windows. 

“Merry Christmas!” said the little 


164 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


round nickel clock in a cheerful tone. i i It’s 
time to get up!” 

“Is it morning?” the Shepherd asked 
drowsily, as he rubbed his eyes. 

“Sure it’s morning!” the little clock 
answered. “That lazy old sun is late 
again. He ought to be up and at work. 
He’s like a dishonest hired man.” 

“He’s apt to be slow on Christmas 
morning,” said the Shepherd. 

“Then people blame me and say I’m too 
fast,” the little clock went on. “They 
don’t know what an old shirk the sun can 
be. I’ve been watching him for years and 
have never gone to sleep at my post.” 

After a moment of silence the little clock 
went on: “Hello! The old night is get¬ 
ting a move on it. The cocks are scaring 
it away. Santa Claus has been here. He 
brought ever so many things. The mid¬ 
night train stopped.” 

“I wonder who came,” said the Shep¬ 
herd. 


165 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“I guess it was the Bings,’’ the clock 
answered. 

Just then it struck seven. 

‘ 4 There, I guess that’s about the end of 
it,” said the little clock. 

“Of what?” the Shepherd asked. 

“Of the nineteen hundred and eighteen 
years. You know seven is the favored 
number in sacred history. I’m sure the 
baby would have been born at seven. My 
goodness! There’s a lot of ticking in all 
that time. I’ve been going only twelve 
years and I’m nearly worn out. Some 
young clock will have to take my job before 
long.” 

These reflections of the little clock were 
suddenly interrupted. The Shepherd’s 
mother entered with a merry greeting and 
turned on the lights. There were many 
bundles lying about. She came and kissed 
her son and began to build a fire in the 
little stove. 

“This’ll be the merriest Christmas in 


166 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


yer life, laddie boy,” she said, as she lit 
the kindlings. “A great doctor has come 
up with the Bings to see ye. He says he 11 
have ye out-o’-doors in a little while.” 

“Ho, ho! That looks like the war was 
nearly over,” said Mr. Bloggs. 

Mrs. Moran did not hear the remark of 
the little tin soldier so che rattled on: 

“I went over to the station to meet ’em 
last night. Mr. Blenkinsop has brought ufe 
a fine turkey. We’ll have a gran’ dinner— 
sure we will—an’ I axed Mr. Blenkinsop 
to come an’ eat with us.” 

Mrs. Moran opened the gifts and spread 
them on the bed. There were books and 
paints and brushes and clothing and silver 
articles and needle-work and a phonograph 
and a check from Mr. Bing. 

The little cottage had never seen a day 
so full of happiness. It rang with talk 
and merry laughter and the music of the 
phonograph. Mr. Blenkinsop had come in 
his best mood and apparel with the dog 

167 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


Christmas. He helped Mrs. Moran to set 
the table in the Shepherd’s room and 
brought up the platter with the big brown 
turkey on it, surrounded by sweet potatoes, 
all just out of the oven. Mrs. Moran fol¬ 
lowed with the jelly and the creamed 
onions and the steaming coffee pot and new 
celery. The dog Christmas growled and 
ran under the bed when he saw his master 
coming with that unfamiliar burden. 

“He’s never seen a Christmas dinner 
before. I don’t wonder he’s kind o ’ scairt! 
I ain’t seen one in so long, I’m scairt my¬ 
self,” said Hiram Blenkinsop as they sat 
down at the table. 

“What’s scairin’ ye, man?” said the 
widow. 

“ ’Fraid I’ll wake up an’ find myself 
dreamin’,” Mr. Blenkinsop answered. 

“Nobody ever found himself dreamin’ 
at my table,” said Mrs. Moran. “Grab 
the carvin’ knife an’ go to wurruk, man.” 

“I ain’t eggzac’ly used to this kind of 

168 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


a job, but if you’ll look out o’ the winder, 
I'll have it chopped an’ split an’ corded 
in a minute, ’ ’ said Mr. Blenkinsop. 

He got along very well with his task. 
When they began eating he remarked, 
1 ‘I’ve been lookin’ at that pictur’ of a 
girl with a baby in her arms. Brings the 
water to my eyes, it’s so kind o’ life like 
and nat’ral. It’s an A number one pictur’ 
—no mistake.” 

He pointed at a large painting on the 
wall. 

‘‘It’s Pauline!” said the Shepherd. 

“Sure she’s one o’ the saints o’ God!” 
the widow exclaimed. “She’s started a 
school for the children o’ them Eytalians 
an’ Poles. She’s tryin’ to make ’em good 
Americans.” 

“ I ’ll never forget that night, ’ ’ Mr. Blen¬ 
kinsop remarked. 

“If ye don’t fergit it, I’ll never mend 
another hole in yer pants,” the widow an¬ 
swered. 


169 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


44 I’ve never blabbed a word about it to 
any one but Mr. Singleton.” 

‘ 4 Keep that in yer soul, man. It’s yer 
ticket to Paradise,” said the widow. 

i ‘She goes every day to teach the Poles 
and Italians, but I have her here with me 
always,” the Shepherd remarked. ‘ 1 I’m 
glad when the morning comes so that I 
can see her again.” 

“God bless the child! We was sorry to 
lose her but we have the pictur’ an’ the 
look o’ her with the love o’ God in her 
face,” said the Widow Moran. 

“Now light yer pipe and take yer com¬ 
fort, man,” said the hospitable widow, 
after the dishes were cleared away. ‘ ‘ Sure 
it’s more like Christmas to see a man an’ a 
pipe in the house. Heavens, no! A man 
in the kitchen is worse than a hole in yer 
petticoat. ’ 9 

So Mr. Blenkinsop sat with the Shep¬ 
herd while the widow went about her 
work. With his rumpled hair, clean 

170 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


shaven face, long nose and prominent ears, 
he was not a handsome man. 

“This is the top notch an’ no mistake,’’ 
he remarked as he lighted his pipe. 
“Blenkinsop is happy. He feels like his 
Old Self. He has no fault to find with any¬ 
thing or anybody.” 

Mr. Blenkinsop delivered this report on 
the state of his feelings with a serious look 
in his gray eyes. 

‘ ‘ It kind o ’ reminds me o ’ the time when 
I used to hang up my stockin’ an’ look 
for the reindeer tracks in the snow on 
Christmas mornin’,” he went on. “Since 
then, my ol’ socks have been full o’ pain 
an’ trouble every Christmas.” 

“Those I knit for ye left here full of 
good wishes,” said the Shepherd. 

“Say, when I put ’em on this mornin’ 
with the b’iled shirt an’ the suit that Mr. 
Bing sent me, my Old Self came an’ asked 
me where I was goin’, an’ when I said I 
was goin’ to spen’ Christmas with a re- 

171 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


spectable fam’ly, lie said, ‘I guess I’ll go 
with ye,’ so here we be.” 

“The Old Selves of the village have all 
been lacked out-of-doors,” said the Shep¬ 
herd. “The other day you told me about 
the trouble you had had with yours. That 
night, all the Old Selves of Bingville got 
together down in the garden and talked 
and talked about their relatives so I 
couldn’t sleep. It was a kind of Selfland. 
I told Judge Crooker about it and he said 
that that was exactly what was going on 
in the Town Hall the other night at the 
public meeting.” 

“The folks are drunk—as drunk as I 
was in Hazelmead last May,” said Mr. 
Blenkinsop. 4 ‘ They have been drunk with 
gold and pleasure-” 

“The fruit of the vine of plenty,” said 
Judge Crooker, who had just come up the 
stairs. ‘ ‘ Merry Christmas! ” he exclaimed 
as he shook hands. “Mr. Blenkinsop, you 
look as if you were enjoying yourself.” 

172 



THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“An’ why not when yer Self has been 
away an* just got back?” 

“And you’ve killed the fatted turkey,” 
said the Judge, as he took out his silver 
snuff box. “One by one, the prodigals are 
returning. ’ ’ 

They heard footsteps on the stairs and 
the merry voice of the Widow Moran. In 
a moment, Mr. and Mrs. Bing stood in the 
doorway. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Bing, I want to make you 
acquainted with my very dear friend, 
Robert Moran,” said Judge Crooker. 

There were tears in the Shepherd’s eyes 
as Mrs. Bing stooped and kissed him. He 
looked up at the mill owner as the latter 
took his hand. 

“I am glad to see you,” said Mr. 
Bing. 

‘ ‘ Is this—is this Mr. J. Patterson 
Bing?” the Shepherd asked, his eyes wide 
with astonishment. 

“Yes, and it is my fault that you do 

173 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


not know me better. I want to be your 
friend. ’ * 

The Shepherd put his handkerchief over 
his eyes. His voice trembled when he 
said: “You have been very kind to 

us.” 

11 But I’m really hoping to do something 
for you,” Mr. Bing assured him. “I’ve 
brought a great surgeon from New York 
who thinks he can help you. He will be 
over to see you in the morning.” 

They had a half-hour’s visit with the 
little Shepherd. Mr. Bing, who was a 
judge of good pictures, said that the boy’s 
work showed great promise and that his 
picture of the mother and child would 
bring a good price if he cared to sell it. 
When they arose to go, Mr. Blenkinsop 
thanked the mill owner for his Christmas 
suit. 

“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Bing. 

“Well, it mentions itself purty middlin’ 
often,” Mr. Blenkinsop laughed. 

174 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


“Is there anything else I can do for 
yon?” the former asked. 

“Well, sir, to tell ye the dead hones’ 
truth, I’ve got a new ambition,” said Mr. 
Blenkinsop. “I’ve thought of it nights a 
good deal. I’d like to be sextunt o’ the 
church an’ ring that ol’ bell.” 

“We’ll see what can be done about it,” 
Mr. Bing answered with a laugh, as they 
went down-stairs with Judge Crooker, fol¬ 
lowed by the dog Christmas, who scam¬ 
pered around them on the street with a 
merry growl of challenge, as if the spirit 
of the day were in him. 

“What is it that makes the boy so ap¬ 
pealing?” Mr. Bing asked of the Judge. 

“He has a wonderful personality,” Mrs. 
Bing remarked. 

“Yes, he has that. But the thing that 
underlies and shines through it is his great 
attraction. ’ ’ 

“What do you call it?” Mrs. Bing asked. 

“A clean and noble spirit! Is there any 

175 


THE PRODIGAL VILLAGE 


other thing in this world that, in itself, is 
really worth having ?’ ’ 

“Compared with him, I recognize that 
I am very poor indeed,” said J. Patterson 
Bing. 

“You are what I would call a promising 
young man,” the Judge answered. “If 
you don’t get discouraged, you’re going 
to amount to something. I am glad be¬ 
cause you are, in a sense, the father of the 
great family of Bingville.” 


THE END 


RIDDLES 








BIDDLES 


CHAPTEK ONE 

John Riddles, the Young and Wealthy 
Mill Owner, Whose Health Has Been 
Impaired by the Tyranny of Success 
and the Pivot Chair and the Soft Em¬ 
brace of Luxury, Revolts and Goes on 
a Vacation, and for the First Time He 
Enjoys the Companionship of Himself 
and of Good Digestion, and Meets a 
Singular Character, and Gets a Real 
Job. 

^^■TTHOA! Hold up!” said Riddles. 

VV 44 Pull out of the road a little and 
stop your engine.” 


179 



RIDDLES 


The chauffeur obeyed his master. 

“Say, I’ll give you a vacation if you’ll 
give me one,” Riddles proposed. 

“Anything the matter?” the chauffeur 
asked with a puzzled look. 

“Yes. I’m smothered in luxury and half 
paralyzed in the affectionate embrace of 
comfort. I’m dying of idleness. My in¬ 
ternal organs have knocked off—struck, as 
you may say. If a man’s feet and hands 
are doing nothing, his internal organs in¬ 
sist upon the same privilege. Here’s where 
I hop out of the lap of luxury.” 

Riddles arose, drew his silver-mounted 
walking-stick out of the golf bag and 
stepped to the ground and added: 

“Jones, I’m a discontented rebel. I’m 
sick of the odors of crude oil and gasoline 
and carbon dioxide. I’m tired of the look 
of blurred landscapes. You may return 
and put the car in Bell’s garage and go on 
a month’s vacation.” 

“You don’t mean to pike off in the hot 

180 


RIDDLES 


sun, do you?” the chauffeur asked with a 
look of astonishment. 

44 Yes, I’m going to burn the carbon out 
of my cylinders and push on with my own 
power. Once I get the old engine tuned 
up it will take me anywhere. It has more 
gears than any piece of machinery you ever 
saw. I don’t know where I am—couldn’t 
even tell the name of the state—and I guess 
you don’t know, if anybody should ask 
you. ’ ’ 

The chauffeur, with a puzzled look, 
turned the car and said before starting: 

44 Ain’t you goin’ to take a grip with 
you?” 

44 Nary a grip!” said Eiddles. 44 Going 
to travel light. No baggage but a tooth¬ 
brush. When I need clothes I’ll buy ’em.” 

The car started on its homeward journey 
and Riddles, the famous Riddles of Belle- 
harbor, was alone on a strange country 
road in a beautiful valley of New England. 
He was taking a rest. His men had struck, 

181 



RIDDLES 


and then he had struck suddenly and un¬ 
expectedly. His men had gathered about 
the gates of the mill prepared to throw 
bricks and stones. Suddenly they discov¬ 
ered that there was no one to throw them 
at. Eiddles had closed the plant and gone 
off for a holiday. In their talk with one 
another his help were wont to refer to him 
as 44 the old man” and to speak longingly 
of his 44 wad.” 

4 4 What does he expect to do with his 
wad!” one of them had asked in a public 
meeting. “He’s nobody but himself. I 
suppose he thinks that he can’t afford to 
git married.” 

The truth is that Riddles was only 
twenty-nine; his 44 wad” was undoubtedly 
large—the largest in the city of Bellehar- 
bor—and he was a bachelor, but a rather 
discontented one. He had built the big 
Hotel Teneriffe largely for his own accom¬ 
modation. Still, its crowded corridors and 

182 



RIDDLES 


dining-rooms had not relieved his loneli¬ 
ness. 

“A man of your wealth ought to have a 
wife and a home,” a friend had said to 
him one day. 

“It’s my success which has stood in the 
way of it,” he had answered. “Wealth is 
a dangerous thing. It is hard on women. 
Look at those we know. If I could find a 
girl who had the right view of money and 
was not likely to be spoiled by it, I’d marry 
her quick if she’d have me. Doubtless 
there are many such, but they don’t seem 
to come my way.” 

Riddles stood looking down into the fer¬ 
tile, green valley. Mowing machines were 
clanging across the meadows and filling the 
air with their familiar battle-song. A gen¬ 
tle breeze came off the shorn lands laden 
with odors which he had known and loved 
in his boyhood—clover and daisies and 
wild strawberries and timothy. He had 
been raised in a fine old New England 

183 


RIDDLES 


homestead surrounded bv fertile acres, and 
there he had laid the foundation of his big 
structure of bone and muscle which had 
made him one of the most formidable 
heroes of the stadium in his college days. 

He took a letter from his pocket which 
he had received at his last stopping place 
and reread it. The letter was from John 
Galt, his friend and superintendent. He 
gave particular attention to this item: 


If convenient I wish you would stop at 
Coulterville and call on my friends. It is 
an ancient stronghold of the Gaits, who 
are scattered through the hills and valleys. 
Be sure to see my uncle, David Galt, who 
has more influence than any man in that 
county. The sweetest girl in the world has 
a summer home near there. Her name is 
Harriet Martin. Her mother is a widow. 
They live on a farm. I have seen Miss 
Harriet twice and was to have met her in 
New York last winter, but the trip to 
Europe defeated my plan. I wish you could 
get acquainted with her and organize a 
dinner party at the Inn and invite me. I 

184 


RIDDLES 


could run up for a day as well as not. Be 
careful, I beg of you, not to fall in love 
with her yourself. If you were not girl- 
proof I wouldn’t trust you with such a mis¬ 
sion—darned if I would. 

He folded the letter and put it back in 
his pocket with a smile and started down 
the road. 

4 ‘ Girl-proof! ’* he laughed. * ‘ That shows 
that he doesn’t know me. Poor devil! I’ll 
give him a scare.” 

It was a relief to get rid of the car and 
its noises and its oleaginous flavors and 
its swirl of wind. Now he could hear the 
songs of the birds and smell the breath of 
the meadows. Moreover, he felt a joy and 
a stimulation in the use of his bones and 
muscles. 

“I should think it couldn’t be far from 
here,” he said to himself as he went on. 

In fact it was not. At the corners, not 
half a mile farther on, he saw a sign-board 

185 


RIDDLES 


which directed him into the road to Coul- 
terville sixteen miles ahead. 

In a few minutes he came upon a farmer 
working with a scythe near the road 
wall. 

‘ 6 Do you need any help ?’ ’ Riddles asked. 

The farmer looked at the traveler about 
whom there was a rich glow of blue silk 
and polished tan leather and clean gray 
flannel and spotless tweed and artful tailor¬ 
ing. 

“Do I want any help? Of course I do. 
Everybody wants help these days,” the 
farmer answered. 

“Would you give me a job?” Riddles 
asked. 

The farmer smiled and felt his beard 
thoughtfully as he answered: 

“Say, I’ve hired tramps an’ boys an’ ol’ 
men, an’ I’ve got one feller that escaped 
from the insane asylum; but I don’t want 
no millionaires.” 

Riddles laughed at the shrewdness of the 

186 


RIDDLES 


man who stood resting on his scythe. 
‘ ‘ There’s no getting away from it once yon 
have the mark on yon/’ he thonght. 

“I’m a working man the same as yon 
are,” he declared. “I haven’t forgot how 
to swing a scythe or handle a pitchfork. 
Give me a trial.” 

‘ ‘ Say, mister, if I was to give you a job, 
do ye know what I’d want ye to do?” the 
farmer asked. “I’d tell ye to keep right 
on walkin’ ’til ye got out o’ sight. You 
could earn more for me travelin’ than ye 
could makin’ hay. You’re a good feller 
too, an’ I’ll bet on it.” 

“You don’t seem to like the look of me,” 
Riddles laughed. 

“I do like it, an’ that’s all that’s the 
matter with ye,” the farmer went on. “I 
like it so well that I’d just love to set down 
an’ do nothin’ but look at ye all day—- 
you’re so gol’ darn han’some. Senators 
and Presidents an’ bankers ain’t no good 
in a hay medder. We never hire ’em in 

187 


RIDDLES 


the summer time. Did you ever see a mil¬ 
lionaire livin’ on a farm?” 

44 No, but I’ve seen a farm livin’ on a 
millionaire,” said Riddles. 

The farmer laughed. 44 Say, you’ve said 
it,” he answered. 44 Seems so the farm 
jumped up in the air an’ landed on his 
back as if it wanted a ride.” 

44 A farm doesn’t know how to behave 
in swell society,” said Riddles as he began 
to walk on. 

44 Say, mister, I’ll give ye a dollar if 
you’ll set down here an’ tell me who ye be 
an ’ what’s the matter with ye, ’ ’ the farmer 
called. “Have ye escaped from that damn 
insane asylum? If there’s any screw loose 
in ye, maybe I can tighten it.” 

44 Yes, I’ve escaped from a large insane 
asylum. Built it myself an’ have lived in 
it for eight years. But I shall not need 
your screw-driver—got one o’ my own.” 

Riddles went on down the road. It was 
a beautiful countryside of smooth and fer- 

188 


RIDDLES 


tile farms and neat, white houses and well- 
kept yards. The hills were crowned with 
light-green savin spires, tall and shapely. 
Here and there a great elm towered above 
the meadow flats and flung its feathery 
dome into the sky. 

After a walk of an hour or so he was 
overtaken by a traveling store—a large, 
square glowing, red box mounted on a 
Ford chassis, its sides lettered in gold with 
the legend: 

“Farmers’ Supply Company of Boston, 
A. Hinchman, Agent.” 

A number of hand rakes and pitchforks 
rested on top of the box. As it was getting 
on toward luncheon time with no tavern in 
sight, Riddles accepted the invitation of 
the driver and climbed up beside him for a 
lift. 

“I am A. Hinchman, Agent,” said the 
driver. 

“I congratulate you. My name is Rid¬ 
dles.” 


189 



RIDDLES 


“I used to shave a man by the name o’ 
Riddles—Lemuel Riddles—I took care o’ 
his face for him for about six years/ ’ said 
A. Hinchman. “It was in good condition, 
too, when I turned it over to another man. 
Not a pimple on it!” 

“You talk as if you had fed and watered 
it and given it exercise,” said Riddles with 
a smile. 

“You bet I hep’ it smooth,” the pedler 
went on. “It was half an acre o’ face, too. 
You see, before I began shovin’ this store 
around the country I was in the barber 
business down in Portsmouth. That kind 
o’ led up to this.” 

“How so?” 

“It was the gift o’ gab I got there,” 
Hinchman went on. “It’s wonderful how 
it draws a man out mowin’ whiskers an’ 
trimmin’ hair. You hear all kinds o’ talk. 
In head work ye just naturally learn how 
to use your head. Honest, a few years of 
it is as good as a college education. I got 

190 


RIDDLES 


to be some talker. You put a parrot in a 
barber shop and in a little while he’s quite 
a bird. It would surprise ye to see how 
much he’ll pick up. One day I was cuttin’ 
a man’s hair. ‘Say,’ he says when I got 
through, ‘you ought to be sellin’ goods. 
You can talk a man helpless. He’d buy to 
get rid o ’ you. If you ever want a job come 
to my office.’ 

“I went and have been earnin’ nigh on 
to sixty dollars a week since, which ain’t 
bad wages.” 

They came to a road inn, presently, 
where Riddles invited Mr. A. Hinchman, 
Agent, to have lunch with him. It was a 
flat and uninteresting bit of country there¬ 
abouts and so Riddles, although weary of 
the trader’s talk, rode on with him after 
luncheon. 

‘‘Do you happen to know where the Mar¬ 
tin farm is?” Riddles asked. 

“The widow Martin’s?—you bet,” said 
Hinchman. “Was there this morning. 

191 


RIDDLES 


Sold ’em some forks an’ rakes an’ a lot o’ 
plates an’ napkins for a picnic. They’re 
goin’ off for a picnic somewhere this 
afternoon. It’s only a few miles up the 
road.” 

About two o’clock they came to a shady 
grove filled with the murmur of flowing 
water. 

‘ 4 Here’s where I leave you,” said Bid¬ 
dles. 6 ‘I’m going to lie down here in the 
shade and take a nap.” 

“I turn into the road to Hope Center 
just above,” said A. Hinchman. 44 I’ll stop 
and look for ye when I come back, by an’ 
by. Maybe you’ll w T ant to go on with me 
toward the Notch. I like yer company, 
darned if I don’t.” 

The pedler drove on and Biddles en¬ 
tered the grove which had been the resort 
of picnic parties. There were dead ashes 
in a little stone arch near which there were 
crusts of bread and crumpled pieces of 
wrapping-paper. A river, near the road, 

192 


RIDDLES 


sped over its rocky bed between high 
shores. Invited by its sound he went and 
looked down into the river valley, cedared 
on both sides, almost to the water’s edge. 
He lay on a mossy bank in the cool shade 
of the grove and closed his eyes. He was 
weary. The song of the river and the smell 
of ferns and grasses were grateful to him. 
He fell into sleep and pleasant dreams of 
a time long past. The jar of approaching 
footsteps soon awoke him. 

“Hello, or Pal!” said a cheerful voice. 

Biddles rose and rubbed his eyes. A tall 
man in faded and seedy garments stood 
before him with a stout, crooked stick in 
his hand. The lower part of the bronzed 
face was covered with black stubble. A 
mass of dark, dusty, unkempt hair showed 
beneath the dirty, torn crown of his straw 
hat. His face had a grimy look. 

“Hello!” Riddles answered. 

“I’m kind o’ scared o’ you,” said the 

193 


RIDDLES 


tramp. “I hope you’re a man o’ good 
morals.” 

“Why?” 

“You’re such a disreputable looking 
cuss. Haven’t you got any decent clothes? 
Anybody would think that you were noth¬ 
ing but a cheap, common millionaire.” 

Eiddles looked at himself and laughed. 

“You look like a worn-out New England 
farm—run down, but not quite deserted,” 
he remarked. 

“There’s still a man in the house,” said 
the tramp. “Sir, is there anything I can 
do for you? I should judge that you have 
seen better days. I don’t know as 1 can 
afford to get mixed up with ye. By 
George! I believe you’d work for a living 
—darned if I don’t. You look like one of 
those unprincipled fellers who would tell 
the truth when a lie would answer better. 
Darned if I don’t believe you would stand 
beside a keg of beer and drown your sor¬ 
rows in cold water.” 


194 


RIDDLES 


Riddles surveyed the humorous tramp 
with a smile and said: “I should judge 
that you and water haven’t met for years. 
I suppose you are afraid o’ being drowned? 
What a flavor of history you carry with 
you! ’ ’ 

4 ‘You are wrong. I am a man without 
a history. A history is expensive. I 
couldn’t afford it. Only kings and na¬ 
tions can indulge in such extravagance. I 
haven’t even a past. It has been wiped 
otf the slate. I have nothing in the world 
but a promising present and a golden, mag¬ 
nificent future all depending on your gen¬ 
erosity.” 

“It’s a slender thread,” said Riddles 
with a smile. “I haven’t enough generosity 
to satisfy my own needs. What’s the mat¬ 
ter with your generosity? Looks as if it 
had been kind o’ stingy with ye.” 

“How modern! You meet a man starv¬ 
ing in the desert and you say, 4 Be generous 
to yourself, old man.’ ” 

195 


RIDDLES 


‘ 4 What is the matter with you anyhow?” 
Riddles asked. 

6 6 Refinement, sir — native-born refine¬ 
ment. I hate hay and cattle and saws and 
scythes and rakes and forks and shovels. 
But chiefly of saws I sing. I get drunk, 
when I can, because it helps me to forget 
’em. In the red cup I see and feel the 
greatness of my future—marble halls and 
noble company. I am filled with the un¬ 
daunted resolve of that sagacious man 
who, having overcome the sacred town of 
Ilium, wandered far and visited the capi¬ 
tals of many nations and endured great 
sufferings on the deep. Oh, Avhat I need 
is brain-work and plenty of it. If I had 
nothing to do but sit down to a lot of big 
problems you’d see how I’d eat ’em up.” 

“Then why try to solve the problem of 
living nowhere on nothing?” was Riddles’ 
inquiry. 

“I’ve got so much nothing that I’m a 
slave to it—an abject slave,” said the 

196 



RIDDLES 


tramp. “It holds me in its grasp like a 
tyrant. ’ ’ 

“And sticks out like a load of hay,” said 
Riddles. 

“Sir, if I asked you for work, you’d give 
me a saw and send me out to the shed, 
wouldn’t you?” the tramp asked. “You 
wouldn’t take me to the mahogany desk 
and put a pen in my hand—that’s sure. 
So I go on, from saw to saw, and arrive 
nowhere with nothing.” 

‘ ‘ Why don’t you save what you earn and 
then earn more until you can dump your 
rags?” 

“Nobody will have me around long. 
They’re scared of me and they treat me 
like a dog. I have a sensitive nature. I 
can not stand it. I stayed in one place a 
week and slept in the hay-loft and ate in 
the shed —me a eating in a shed! Then I 
got into a quarrel with a coarse brute of 
a hired man and left. I hadn’t enough 
to buy clothes, and so I bought whisky and 

197 


RIDDLES 


forgot my troubles and enjoyed a day of 
unusual self-respect.” 

“Whisky is a good friend until it’s over¬ 
worked, ’’ said Riddles with a smile. ‘ 4 Then 
it goes to kickin’ ye and every kick tears 
a hole in yer pants.” 

“I am accustomed to the cold brutality 
of such remarks,” the tramp answered. 
“Nobody understands me. When I emit a 
spark of cheerful hope, some hippopotamus 
comes along and quenches it with his cold, 
broad foot, as Lowell would have said. If 
only I could have a day worth remember¬ 
ing, I would no longer care to forget! My 
light is hidden under this bushel of dirty 
rags. What would you expect from me? 
I am a target for profanity and insult—a 
receptacle for stale bread and cold coffee 
and half-picked bones. I am a thing for 
dogs to bark at. Whichever way I turn 
the saw confronts me, I shudder at the 
thought of its serpent hiss. Good sir, if I 
had that suit you are wearing and only a 

198 


RIDDLES 


little money the gate of Opportuntiy would 
open at once for me. I could begin, to¬ 
morrow, a life of usefulness and self-re¬ 
spect.” 

“I guess the clothes would fit you all 
right,” said Riddles. “You are about my 
size and build. Respectability is another 
matter. Still a man ought to be able to 
make that fit him if he wanted to. The suit 
is not important to me.” 

“But consider what it would mean 
to me—the difference between misery 
and happiness, between success and 
failure. ’ ’ 

“Your talents are quite apparent,” said 
Riddles. “You have almost talked the 
clothes off my back. If I had a decent 
hired man’s suit to put on, I’d give ’em 
to you—darned if I wouldn’t. A week’s 
work in a hay-field would do me good any¬ 
how. ’ ’ 

“Let’s have a smoke,” Riddles added 
after a little silence as he gave the tramp 

199 



RIDDLES 


a cigar. “Meanwhile let us walk together.” 

They rose and started for the road. 
They had not reached it when Eiddles saw 
the pedler’s store coming. A. Hinchman, 
Agent, stopped the engine, dismounted and 
approached the two men. 

“Say, Hinchman, what do you sell?” 
Eiddles asked. 

“Anything that a farmer needs from a 
whetstone to a family Bible.” 

“Any clothes?” 

“Just one farm suit left.” 

“Would it fit me?” 

“Wouldn’t wonder. It’s A size.” 

“Let me see it.” 

The pedler opened his little store and 
took out the suit. “It’s forty-four inch 
chest, light material, blue-and-w T hite stripe, 
cool, durable an’ well made.” 

“How about shoes, socks, underwear?” 

“Got plenty of ’em, any size, weight or 
color.” 


200 


RIDDLES 


“Give me a complete outfit and I’ll step 
back o’ the bushes and try ’em on,” said 
Biddies.” 

“Be you goin’ into the farmin’ busi¬ 
ness?” the pedler asked, as with an armful 
of goods he accompanied Mr. Biddles. 

‘ ‘ I be—if you can succeed in putting the 
right look on me.” 

“Say, if you’re lookin’ for a job—there’s 
plenty of ’em at big wages. I don’t know 
but I could get ye one with our company. 
They want a good talker in the store at 
Hopeville. It’s good for fifty dollars a 
week. ’ ’ 

“Don’t try to spoil me with high life,” 
said Biddles. “I’m lookin’ for work and 
not for conversation.” 

The pedler looked at him with a puzzled 
expression and began to talk about “the 
farmin’ business”—of health, hay and 
happiness growing while you sleep, of large 
yields and high prices. 

Meanwhile Biddles took off his fine rai- 

201 



RIDDLES 


ment and put on the farm suit. Its striped 
trousers did not quite reach the tops of 
his coarse cowhide shoes. The coat sleeves 
were a little too short and the coat itself 
showed a general lack of capacity. The 
coarse, cotton shirt had no collar. As he 
looked down at himself he remarked in the 
dialect of his fathers: 

“Say, by gosh, I feel as full of fun as a 
barrel o’ hard cider. If it don't cost 
too much, I'll keep it. What's the 
tariff?" 

“The feelin's don't cost a cent—the out¬ 
fit complete is twenty-seven dollars," said 
the pedler. “There's no jay in this coun¬ 
try that's got anything on you." 

“Except perfumery," said Riddles as he 
smelled his coat sleeve. “Where did you 
get it?" 

“It's like bait on a fish-hook," said 
Hinchman. “I put a little on all my dry- 
goods." 

“And now it’s on me. Violets! Gosh 

202 


RIDDLES 


almighty! I look like a tramp and smell 
like a society queen. Have you any stout 
shears?” 

44 Three dozen pairs—best in the world.” 

6 i All right. I want you to cut and stack 
that man’s hair an’ run yer mowin’ ma¬ 
chine over his neck an’ face an’ tramp 
down what ye can’t cut. Between the two 
of us there’s some hayin’ to be done, but 
I’ll give ye thirty dollars for clothes an’ 
labor. ’ ’ 

“It's a bargain,” said the pedler. 

The tramp laughed when Riddles came 
out of the bushes. 

“Say, ol’ man—you’re a bird!” he ex¬ 
claimed, 

“I’ve been caged, but you’re still in the 
bush,” said Riddles. “We’ll have ye fixed 
soon.” Turning to the pedler he added: 
“Bring a cake of soap—laundry soap, if 
you please—and two towels and then we’ll 
all go down to the river. If you have a 
good straight razor, bring it alone.” * 

203 



RIDDLES 


The pedler got the needed articles, 
locked his store and went with the two 
men, Riddles having the discarded gar¬ 
ments on his arm. 

At the river’s edge the tramp held np a 
tooth-brush. 

“Behold the only link which connects 
me with the dead and noble past!” 
he exclaimed. “My heart has fared 
badly, bnt I have always kept my teeth 
clean.” 

He scrubbed his teeth, undressed and 
soaped himself and dove into a deep pool. 
Riddles observed that he had a fine, erect 
and almost Herculean figure and also that 
he had many scars on his back. 

The millionaire in his farm suit sat on a 
rock while the tonsorial pedler cut his hair 
close. For a number of years he had worn 
a mustache and chin lock. 

“We’ll take off the mustache and en¬ 
large the chin lock,” said Riddles. “I’ll 

204 


RIDDLES 


soon have a bunch of whiskers to serve as 
a license for farm life. Perhaps it will 
keep the cattle from horning me.” 

When the shaving was accomplished, 
both the tramp and the pedler laughed at 
the new look of the late Mr. Riddles. 

“Next!” the pedler called. 

The tramp took his place on the rock 
and the pedler fell to at once while Riddles 
superintended the job. The tramp’s face 
was smoothly shaved, his hair neatly, but 
not closely, trimmed, and his head thor¬ 
oughly shampooed. He was quite another 
sort of human being when he arose from 
the rock. 

“Now get one o’ those rakes an’ clean 
up the shore,” said Riddles as he paid the 
pedler. “It looks as if there’d been a dog 
fight here.” 

“I done some grabbin’ and chawin’ with 
them shears,” the latter answered as he 
gathered up the hair and threw it into the 

205 


RIDDLES 


stream. “Is there anything more I can do 
for ye?” 

Riddles turned and asked the tramp: 
“Do I want anything more done for me?” 

“No, unless you’ve got a tooth that needs 
pullin\” 

“Couldn’t stand no more pullin’ to¬ 
day,” said Riddles. “You can rub a little 
mud on these garments just to take the 
new look off ’em—not too much. Just a 
smear here and there.” 

The pedler applied the mud, wiping it 
so as to leave sundry stains on the coat 
and trousers. 

“Now,” said Riddles, “I don’t want you 
to do anything more for me. I’ve had so 
much done for me now that I’m kind o’ 
shy. ’ ’ 

“Well, gents, I’ll bid ye good-by,” said 
A. Hinchman as he gathered his tools and 
hurried up the bank. He drove on down 
the road, while Riddles helped the tramp 
with his dressing. The delicate silk under- 

206 


RIDDLES 


garments, the shirt of soft gray flannel, 
the collar, the blue silk string tie, the blue 
silk socks with their garters, the pol¬ 
ished tan shoes—a trifle too large, but 
still a comfortable fit—had wrought a 
great change in the look and manners of 
the tramp. His voice had grown gentler, 
his face had a friendly look. Riddles en¬ 
joyed the magic he had wrought. In a 
moment the tramp stood dressed under the 
soft Clyde cap with a glow of high respec¬ 
tability upon him. 

Mr. Riddles gave him an admiring sur¬ 
vey. He had found a new kind of pleasure 
in this unusual proceeding. It would be 
easy for him to get other clothes when he 
wanted them and, meanwhile, he would not 
be too respectable to get a job. After a 
week or so in the fields he would try to find 
the young lady. 

“ You ’ll do,” Riddles said. “You look 
like the friend and guardian of a million 
dollars. ’ ? 


207 


RIDDLES 


‘ 6 Make it ten, ’’ said the tramp. 6 6 1 don’t 
like a crowd/’ 

“ All right. Here’s a ten,” said Riddles 
as he picked up his wallet. “This man- 
zanito stick of mine with its silver trim¬ 
mings will help you to keep the wolf away 
from it.” 

‘ ‘ You have, indeed, bound up my wounds 
and poured in oil and wine,” said the re¬ 
made tramp with a look of real gratitude. 
‘ 6 What can I do for you ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing more,” answered Riddles in a 
tone of gentle irony as he looked down at 
himself. “Now I should like to know your 
name and where your home is. You may 
call me-” Riddles hesitated. 

“Why not Reuben Smith,” the late 
tramp suggested. 

“All right. I guess that is as good as 
any name,” said Riddles. “What is 
yours?” 

“Let me see—what is my name? Oh! 
Really! I had quite forgotten to tell you 

208 



RIDDLES 


that my name is J. Reginald Travers, of 
Taviston House, Wrentham above Wrig- 
glesworth, Surrey, England.” 

These words were spoken with an accent 
and a manner so perfectly in keeping with 
the clothes he wore and the rich, old-coun¬ 
try flavor of the fictitious name and ad¬ 
dress he had given that Riddles laughed 
in astonishment. 

“You are some actor!” he exclaimed. 

“You see, deah Smith, I have been 
miscahst,” said Travers. “I am now my¬ 
self—quite myself, deah Smith! I will not 
lahf at you, but really you do present a 
most absurd appearance.” 

“I am so glad,” Riddles answered. “I 
am a little weary of dukes and duchesses 
and squabs and terrapin and insomnia. 
I’m going to do as I like for a while. I’m 
going to hit the hay and breathe its sweet¬ 
ness.” 

They could hear voices and the sound of 

209 


RIDDLES 


motor-cars and the tramp of feet in the 
grove. 

“Ba Jove! It’s a picnic party/’ said 
Travers. “Deah Smith, it is a God¬ 
send! I find myself in need of refresh¬ 
ment.’ ’ 

“I am as hungry as a bear,” said Rid¬ 
dles. 

“ Leave it to me, old friend. It is a very 
simple problem in diplomacy. Let us go 
up the bank together. You stay behind 
the bushes until I have, in a way, prepared 
their minds for your—unusual appear¬ 
ance.” 

Riddles regarded the change in the man 
who stood beside him with growing ad¬ 
miration and astonishment. The cynical, 
half-defiant tone of the tramp had left him. 
The facile grace with which he played the 
part of a genial, well-bred Englishman was 
the chief cause of Mr. Riddles’ astonish¬ 
ment. They went together up the bank. 
The tramp millionaire concealed himself 

210 


RIDDLES 


in a bunch of cedars near the edge of the 
grove while Travers went on. 

“Ah! Pardon me, ladies and gentle¬ 
men/’ Riddles heard him saying in a mo¬ 
ment. “I do not mean to intrude upon 
your privacy. I am an Englishman travel¬ 
ing in America. My car left me here so 
that I could enjoy a walk through this 
lovely countryside and take a train when I 
had grown weary of it. I met an unfortu¬ 
nate man—I believe you would call him a 
tramp—a quite harmless and engaging fel¬ 
low, I may say, and was rather touched by 
his story. I bought him clean clothes 
from a traveling pedler, gave him a trifle 
of money and induced him to take a bahth 
in the river.” 

Travers’ statement was greeted with 
merry laughter. 

“I hope it doesn’t kill him,” said a man’s 
voice. “He has imposed upon you. The 
American tramp is a worthless and often 

211 


RIDDLES 


a dangerous fellow. We don’t waste any 
sympathy on him in this country . 9 9 

“I dare say, but I cahn’t help thinking, 
you know, that he is, after all, human,” 
Travers went on. “The worst I can say 
of the poor fellow is that he detained me 
far beyond my reckoning. Could you tell 
me is there a comfortable inn in this 
parish?” 

“The only one you would care to stop 
at is five miles from here,” said a man’s 
voice. “If you will do us the honor to 
share our picnic supper, we shall be glad 
to drop you at the inn later.” 

The invitation was heartily seconded by 
the other picnickers. 

“It is most kind of you,” said Travers. 
“Would you mind asking that poor chap 
who is still—I think—down by the river to 
take a bite with the chauffeurs ? I am sure 
he would be glad to bring wood for the fire 
and give us any help he can.” 

“Not at all,” said the feminine voices, 

212 


RIDDLES 


and then a man added: “We can fill him 
up. Tell him to come on.” 

Travers went to the edge of the high 
bank and called: “ I say—Smith!’’ 

6 6 Here I be! ’ * said Riddles as he emerged 
from the bushes. 

A well-dressed, stout man who stood by 
the fire of burning twigs roared with 
laughter at the appearance of “the unfor¬ 
tunate man.” Some of the ladies looked 
at one another and covered their faces as if 
to indicate that, while they would like to 
be decently human, it was almost too much 
to expect under the circumstances. There 
were four ladies sitting on blankets, very 
handsome and smartly dressed. Poor Rid¬ 
dles was particularly impressed by one 
face among them. It was that of a young 
lady—very gentle and fresh and comely 
under a wavy crown of thick, dark hair 
partly covered with a delicate purple veil 

which fell gracefully about her shoulders. 

213 


RIDDLES 


The fact that she had not laughed at him 
challenged Riddles* eye and he stood look¬ 
ing at her for an instant only. He did not 
miss the look of sympathy in her face. 

“Unmarried and about twenty-three!** 
he thought. “What a magnificent young 
woman! It*s the time of all others when 
I should be a gentleman instead of a tramp. 
I wonder if this is the Martin picnic 
party.* * 

These thoughts ran through the mind of 
the dejected Riddles. He was rudely awak¬ 
ened by the voice of the well-dressed, stout, 
middle-aged man. 

“Come, Weary Willie!** the latter 
shouted. “Hustle around here and bring 
us some wood for the fire.** 

“All right, mister!** Riddles answered 
as he set out to gather sticks of wood in 
the near grove. 

“He could wade the river without wet¬ 
ting his pants!** said a young man in a 
white linen suit as the others laughed. 

214 


RIDDLES 


There were four gentlemen in the party, 
two young men and two of middle age. 

“The poor fellow has had a glorious 
pahst,” Travers was saying in the hearing 
of Eiddles. “Wealth—a good family, and 
all that! A too generous nature and evil 
associations brought him down. But—you 
know—I cahn’t help thinking that there is 
still hope for him.” 

“I don’t agree with you,” said the stout, 
■well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman in a 
half-whisper. “When wine, women and 
song have got through with a man, he’s 
hopeless.” 

“He looks clean, at least,” said one of 
the ladies. 

“The pedler sheared off his hair and he’s 
has a bahth with laundry soap,” said 
Travers. “He is quite clean, I am sure.” 

“Outside!” said the stout, well-dressed 
gentleman. He turned to Riddles, who was 
arriving with wood, and asked: “Say, 
Willie, did you ever broil a steak?” 

215 


RIDDLES 


“Yes, sir,” the latter answered. 

“Then please wash your hands in that 
basin and we’ll see what yon can do.” 

Riddles had been the chief cook on many 
a picnic. He had said more than once that 
the only art with which he felt familiar 
was that of broiling beefsteak—a remark 
due to his modesty, for he had a fine bass 
voice and a gift for the piano unequaled 
by other amateurs in his city. There were 
two thick steaks and a package of bacon. 
He cut the latter into strips and basted the 
steaks with it and began the broiling. 
While this was going on the stout, middle- 
aged gentleman said to Travers: 

“I am Erastus Waters of New York and 
would like to know whom we have the 
honor of entertaining.” 

Mr. Travers stepped forward and shook 
his hand and said: “My name is John 
Reginald Travers of Taviston House, 
Wrentham above Wrigglesworth, Surrey, 
England—a bit of country quite like this— 

216 


RIDDLES 


yon know—hills and valleys and tall trees 
and, all—excellent people.’’ 

Mr. Waters presented him to the other 
members of the party. Riddles did not fail 
to note that the handsome young lady was 
Miss Harriet Martin—undoubtedly the girl 
he was looking for—and that it was her 
mother, a good-looking woman a little past 
forty, who sat beside her in a widow’s veil. 
He regretted to learn that the girl’s name 
was Harriet Martin because—well—he was 
not an ideal ambassador. The smartly 
dressed, dark-haired youth who had spoken 
with such disrespect of Riddles’ trousers 
was Percival, the son of Erastus Waters. 
Then there was a Mr. Corning and his son 
James and a Mrs. Pulsifer—also in a 
widow’s veil—an elderly lady about sixty 
years of age, with a very soft and gentle 
voice. 

As the supper proceeded, Mrs. Pul¬ 
sifer elucidated, in tender tones, her view 
of “ethereal substances” and of the in- 

217 





RIDDLES 


fluence of thoughts and names upon human 
destiny. The others listened with respect¬ 
ful silence, but Eiddles could plainly feel 
its undercurrent of amusement. He had 
heard Mr. Waters say to Travers that Mrs. 
Pulsifer was a sister of David Galt, the 
famous political leader. 

The ladies had been impressed by Mr. 
Travers. Mrs. Pulsifer rose and spread a 
blanket for him near where they sat. The 
steaks were drenched in butter, cut in thin 
strips and served between slices of bread. 
All spoke in praise of the skill with which 
they had been cooked. 

“Are you making a long stay in Amer¬ 
ica?” was the question directed at Travers 
by Mr. Waters. 

“Well, you see, I am a bachelor with 
few responsibilities,” the latter answered. 
“I travel much and always without haste, 
you know. I shall soon be going to Cali¬ 
fornia. ’ ’ 


218 


RIDDLES 


“Have another piece of steak,’’ said 
Mrs. Pulsifer with a smile. 

“The twenty-fourth of June is approach¬ 
ing,” said Erastus Waters with a playful 
wink at Mrs. Pulsifer. 

“Good gracious! So it is,” she an¬ 
swered. “I wonder if it’s to be this one.” 

“The fates are busy,” said Waters. 

“What is the meaning of these cryptic 
words?” Mrs. Martin asked. 

“Wait and you may learn,” Waters de¬ 
clared. 

“It’s a secret,” said Mrs. Pulsifer. 
“Mr. Travers, do have some more steak.” 

“See how polite they are as soon as they 
learn that you are a bachelor,” said 
Waters. 

“If I were to stay long in America, I 
am sure that I should be quite reformed,” 
said he. “In no part of the world have I 
found such beautiful and—I may say—en¬ 
gaging women. They are the most kindly 
and hospitable and altogether, I am sure, 

219 



RIDDLES 


the best-hearted lot the sun shines upon— 
really. ’’ 

The ladies put down their plates and 
clapped their hands. Their eating over, 
Mr. Waters passed his cigar case. The 
picnic party chatted while Eiddles ate with 
the chauffeurs and helped them with the 
cleaning up. Presently Travers came and 
said: 

4 4 Smith, Mrs. Martin wishes to speak to 
you.” 

Eiddles went to the lady in the widow’s 
veil. 

44 Smith, I am interested in you,” she 
said in a kindly voice. 44 I need a handy 
man to help in the garden and the hayfield. 
Would you care to try it?” 

44 I enjoy that kind of work and will do 
my best,” Eiddles answered. 

44 You will have a comfortable home,” 
said the woman. 4 4 We will arrange about 
the wages to-morrow.” 

220 


RIDDLES 


“1*11 leave all that to you, ma’am/’ Rid¬ 
dles answered in good Yankee dialect. 

As the dusk fell the ladies began singing 
old songs—a diversion in which presently 
the men joined. 

Soon the party gathered up its blankets 
and left the grove. Riddles was put beside 
the chauffeur in Mrs. Martin’s car. Trav¬ 
ers got in with the Comings and Mrs. Pul- 
sifer and was taken to an inn near her 
country house. 


CHAPTER TWO 


The Wealthy Mill-Owner Learns How 
a Farm Becomes a Leech and a Pes¬ 
tilent Source of Enervation and Moral 
Decay in a Countryside. He Applies 
to the Situation a Dose of Honest 
Frankness. 

R IDDLES was shown to a little room 
over the wood-shed. Its furniture 
included a chair, a strip of carpet, a bed, a 
wash-stand with bowl, pitcher, soap and 
towel and a battered chiffonier, but the 
room and the furniture were clean, the bed 
fairly comfortable. Riddles, being weary, 
had a night of unbroken sleep. He missed 
his tub in the morning, but made out very 
well with a sort of bird bath at the rim 

222 


RIDDLES 


of the basin of cold water. He had been 
told to see Mr. Cawkins, the superinten¬ 
dent, at six a.m. and so at that hour Kid¬ 
dles was down-stairs and wandering over 
the silent and deserted grounds. There 
were large lawns and gardens and great 
elms and many handsome shrubs and a big, 
rambling villa, yellow with white trim¬ 
mings, set in a broad, fertile valley. Across 
a level stretch of meadows, half a mile or 
so from the house, was a range of high 
hills. It was a pretty bit of country. The 
house and grounds showed signs of neg¬ 
lect; both had the appearance of being a 
trifle down at the heel. A blind was loose 
on the front of the main structure, its 
veranda columns needed varnish, its eave 
gutters were eaten out with rust, the shrubs 
and trees had not been trimmed that sum¬ 
mer. 

No feet were stirring on the place 
save those of the late Mr. Riddles. After 

223 


RIDDLES 


some twenty minutes of looking around he 
met a tall, lank, middle-aged man in blue 
overalls coming out of the barn, and asked: 

“Is your name Cawkins?” 

The man looked at Riddles and rubbed 
his long nose with a red handkerchief. 
Then he brushed aside his bristling, dark 
mustache, while his keen gray eyes sur¬ 
veyed the figure of the new man. 

“Yes, sir—that sounds like my name,” 
he answered. 

‘ ‘ I was told to see you at six o ’clock, but 
you were not in sight at that hour,” said 
Riddles. “You may call me Reuben 
Smith. ’ ’ 

“Say, that six o’clock business is like 
everything else here—a joke,” Cawkins 
declared in a low tone. “The breakfast 
hour is supposed to be six-thirty. It’s that 
now and not a girl out o’ bed. Be you 
another patient ? ’ ’ 

“What do you mean?” Riddles asked. 

“Why, this is the darnedest place ye ever 

224 



RIDDLES 


see in yer life,” Cawkins explained in con¬ 
fidential tone. ‘ ‘ It ain ’t a farm, it ’s a kind 
of a health resort. Plenty of amusement 
an’ lots of sleep an’ good pay. The patients 
give me ten per cent, of their wages, an’ 
I kind o’ look after ’em—do what I can 
for their comfort. We all go off to a dance 
or a movie show every night an’, of course, 
we make sleep while the sun shines—stacks 
of it. Ain’t that a cinch?” 

‘ 6 Movie shows! Where do you find 
’em!” Riddles asked. 

“Out to the village—four miles from 
here. That’s nothing when you have some 
Maggie toters an’ the right to use ’em.” 

“What do you do for exercise?” Riddles 
asked. 

“Everything but work. How are you 
goin’ to work for anybody that don’t know 
what work is ? ” 

“I suppose it would be possible to show 
’em what it is like an’ git ’em gradually 
used to it,” Riddles answered. 

225 




RIDDLES 


“But what’s the sense in spoilin’ a good 
thing?” said Cawkins. “She’s satisfied. 
She’s even talkin’ o’ puttin’ in a pool-table 
an’ a tennis-court for the help.” 

“Well, ye know if I wanted to be a fool, 
I wouldn’t need any hired men to help me,” 
said Riddles. 

Again Cawkins laughed. “Say, she’s a 
soft-hearted, lady agriculturist, born in a 
marble palace in the full o’ the moon. 
She’s the leading sleeper in this valley. 
Off somewhere every night. Has her 
breakfast in bed an’ sleeps till one o’clock 
every day. Never discharges anybody. 
When I first came here I tried to work. I 
was goin’ to discharge the loafers and get 
some good help. She wouldn’t stand for 
it. Too soft-hearted. She’s spoilt all the 
servants in the neighborhood. Every¬ 
body’s help is about like ours. They rest 
through the day and work most o’ the 
night. ’ ’ 

“It’s a new kind of a school,” said Rid- 

226 


RIDDLES 


dies. “I suppose Mrs. Martin can afford 
it.” 

“That’s just what worries us—we’re 
afraid she can’t,” Cawkins went on. “We 
haven’t yet got our pay for the last month. 
We’re all ready to quit.” 

“So am I,” said Riddles. “I ain’t 
anxious to git into a nut house, but maybe 
I belong here. We’ll see.” 

Cawkins went to the men’s quarters 
above the garage and awoke them and was 
greeted with rude remarks. At seven- 
thirty Riddles went in to breakfast with 
the superintendent and four husky farm 
hands. 

“My gosh!” the cook exclaimed as she 
looked at Riddles. “Haven’t I got jays 
enough to cook for now?” 

“Go easy, Maggie,” said Cawkins in a 
soothing voice. “It’s only for the hayin’ 
time. He’ll be takin’ you to a dance one 
o’ these nights.” 

“That hayseed! Gosh!” Maggie an- 

227 


RIDDLES 


swered while she stood by the door wiping 
tears from her eyes, as the kitchen-maid 
threw a dipper into the sink with great 
violence. Cawkins introduced Mr. Reuben 
Smith. 

“You’ll find me willin’ an’ obligin’, Mag¬ 
gie,” said Riddles with a smile. “I’m a 
ray o ’ sunshine in the kitchen—handy with 
the scuttle an’ know the way to the wood- 
pile. I always draw the biggest piece o’ 
pie.” 

Maggie was visibly pleased. 

After breakfast Riddles went out into 
the hayfield with the men. When Caw¬ 
kins asked him what he would like to do, 
he expressed a preference for the mowing 
machine—the part of the haying which he 
had liked best in his youth. Cawkins was 
an obliging man, and so the machine, with 
the late Mr. Riddles in its iron seat, was 
soon clanging over a great meadow flat, 
half a mile or so from the house. For him 
it was a delight to see the grass falling 

228 



RIDDLES 


back of the cut-bar and to smell again the 
dewy morning breath of the meadows. 
Only one of the men who had come with 
him was at work—mowing the fence cor¬ 
ners with a scythe; the others, Cawkins 
among them, were lying under the edge of 
a piece of woods. 

The superintendent and his men had a 
well-planned system for beating the game. 
In the back meadow two, and some times 
three, of them were always lying in the 
bushes or oa a swath of hay while the 
others were at work. They slept by turns, 
one calling the other when his time was 
up and taking his place on the flowery bed 
of ease. These conditions were new to Mr. 
Riddles. They excited his interest. The 
haymakers of his boyhood had worked with 
a mighty zest. These were different. All 
save Cawkins were foreign born. He 
learned that day that three of these farm¬ 
hands had been in the army in France. 
They had grown accustomed to long pe- 

229 


RIDDLES 


riods of idleness, and had not recorded 
normal habits of work. 

Biddies went with the servants that 
evening in one of the Ford cars, kept for 
their use, to the village of Coulterville. It 
was a village of some three thousand in¬ 
habitants. He did not care to go to the 
movie show and the dance which was to 
follow it in the Town Hall, so he did a little 
shopping. After which he went with Caw- 
kins to the big meat and grocery market. 
There the superintendent introduced them 
to Sam Bullwether, the chief clerk. Bid¬ 
dles sat down in a comfortable chair with 
his pipe after Cawkins had left to go to the 
movie show. For nearly an hour he read 
the New York paper which he had bought 
at a bookstore. Before he had finished 
his reading the market was deserted save 
by Sam Bullwether, who seemed to be get¬ 
ting ready to close the doors and go home. 

‘ 4 Have a cigar—straight from a rich 
guy?” Biddles asked. 

230 


RIDDLES 


“You bet I will,” the clerk answered as 
he took the long corona which Riddles 
drew from his pocket. “I never saw one 
like that before—Porto Rico, I guess. 
Wait till I lock the doors an’ we’ll set down 
an’ have a smoke before I go home.” 

When the clerk returned, Riddles re¬ 
marked: “I suppose there are a good 
many rich guys around here.” 

“They’ve come here and grabbed the 
hills an’ valleys an’ shoved a lot o’ roofs 
into the air,” the clerk answered as he 
lighted his cigar. “We git all their trade.” 

“An’ purty good prices,” Riddles sug¬ 
gested. 

“Anything we want to ask—the sky is 
the limit. They don’t spend money; they 
just shovel it out—like unloadin’ a ton o’ 
coal. It’s done by hired men—there’s so 
much of it to handle.” 

“Kind o’ heavy work.” 

“Well, ye see, they don’t bother with 
the marketin’—haven’t time. Generally 

231 



RIDDLES 


it’s the cook or the butler or the house¬ 
keeper or the superintendent, an’ the big¬ 
ger the bill the better they like it.” 

“Of course, they get a rake-off.” 

“Most of ’em! They git theirs, in cash, 
too, accordin’ to the amount o’ the bill an’ 
sometimes we have to wait a year for our 
money an’ plenty often w T e git beat out of 
it. The swell guys hate to give up. Some¬ 
times, when they pay, you can hear their 
shrieks for a mile.” 

Eiddles laughed. 

“I don’t know as I blame ’em,” the clerk 
went on. “They’ve been bled an’ they 
know it—the poor suckers! They’ve got 
to be bled. We have to get ours while the 
goin’ is good. Everybody bleeds us, the 
wholesaler, the tailor, the dry-goods mer¬ 
chant, the carpenter, the plumber. I guess 
the rich guy does his share o’ Weedin’ the 
other feller. We’re all in it.” 

“I wonder how long it will be before 

232 


RIDDLES 


we are a bloodless nation,” Riddles said 
as he filled his pipe again. 

“It’s hard on the poor devils, like me, 
that’s workin’ for a salary—clerks an’ 
schoolma’ams an’ town officers. The 
plumber soaked me plenty for a job he 
done up at the house. The rich guys will 
pay him anything he asks an’ I have to 
pay the same.” 

“How is the rich guy to help himself!” 
Riddles asked. “You fellers decide how 
much profit you want to make an’ fix yer 
price an’ he has to pay it. "Why don’t you 
take guns an’ go out on the road an’ be 
honest, straightforward robbers! It’s a 
sneakin’ kind of a business you do. You 
pretend to be honest men an’ hold up the 
whole community. You make the rich man 
holler, but you break the backs o’ the 
poor.” 

“The rich are so foolish—they pay 
more’n they need to,” the clerk went on. 
“Now you take that woman you’re workin’ 

233 


RIDDLES 


for. She’s a real nice woman. It’s a 
pleasure to wait on her, but she don’t come 
in here more’n twice in a summer. If she 
did her own buyin’ and used judgment 
about it, she’d save a lot. The girl comes 
in every week or so. Say, she’s a peach! 
The best looker in the whole bunch an’ 
talks just like a human bein’ an’ funny— 
say, I’d rather talk with her ten minutes 
than see Charley Chaplin!” 

“I wonder why she don’t get married,” 
said Kiddles. 

“Well, sir, I guess she’s hard to please. 
That girl ought to have a real man an’ 
they’re all at work these days, all except 
ol’ Waters’ boy, Percy. He’s just foolin’ 
around here in the country, but he ain’t 
got no show with her.” 

“Why!” 

“Little tin god! Knows it all an’ then 
some more! Kind of a Kaiser William, 
runnin’ a one-man world! Nobody likes 
him. Killed a cow with his big racin’ car 

234 


RIDDLES 


the other night an’ slammed himself into 
a ditch an’ bu’sted a front wheel. Had a 
woman with a starched face in with him— 
a kind of a high stepper from New York, 
whose husband is in the army an’ hasn’t 
got home yet. Hank Thompson picked ’em 
up and brought ’em to Brown’s drugstore. 
They said Percy was half drunk. Only had 
a few scratches; but she had to go to the 
hospital. His father paid for the cow and 
gave Hank twenty dollars to keep his 
tongue still. That young feller ain’t no 
match for Harriet Martin, I can tell ye 
that. If she marries him, it’ll be because 
she has to.” 

“Why should she have to?” Riddles 
asked. 

“Well, I’ll tell ye, ol’ Waters has money 
to burn. Percy is the only child an’ I 
shouldn’t wonder if the widow Martin was 
a little hard up. That farm as it’s run 
now would break anybody—give it time 
enough. Waters may get control of ’em. 

235 


RIDDLES 


He owns this store an* the First National 
Bank an’ the hardware store an’ the 
Farmer’s Supply Company an’ the Lake¬ 
side Hotel. High prices don’t hurt his 
feelin’s a hit. Over at the Lakeside you 
have to put up two dollars and fifty cents 
for a beefsteak.” 

“Is there any good reason for that?” 
Riddles asked. 

The clerk smiled and said with a know¬ 
ing look: “Well, I believe the beef trust 
owns four hundred thousand dollars’ 
worth of the stock of the hotel company. 
I hear that they’ve got the same kind of 
a cinch on most of the big hotels in 
America.” 

“That means that the beef trust cuts 
out competition in selling meat to big 
hotels and can help fix the price on the bill 
of fare,” Riddles mused. 

“They handle meat, poultry, eggs, fish 
an’ groceries,” Bullwether answered. 

“They’ve got the world by the gizzard,” 

236 


RIDDLES 


said Riddles. ^ Still an honest store could 
do a lot for the poor gizzards of Coulter- 
ville.” 

44 Wait ’til I start mine,” the clerk 
answered. 

The town clock struck eleven. Riddles 
rose from his chair. 

44 I’m due at the post-office door,” he 
remarked. 44 We’ve had a good talk.” 

44 Don’t say a word of what I’ve told 
ye,” said the clerk as he let Riddles out 
of the front door. 

44 Not a word,” Riddles answered. 

He waited in front of the post-office for 

nearly half an hour before the two Ford 

( 

cars arrived with their party of indus¬ 
trious fun seekers. 

Next evening he found old David Galt 
sitting by the stove with Sam Bullwether. 
Galt was a big, stout man with a white 
mustache and chin lock. He had a large, 
ruddy face and gray eyes. He whittled a 
piece of pine as he talked. He was dressed 

237 


RIDDLES 


in black with a low-cut vest, a broad ex¬ 
panse of white shirt-front adorned with a 
diamond stud, and a long frock coat. His 
old-fashioned low collar held a white string 
tie. 

“I’ve lived seventy years in this coun¬ 
try/ ’ he was saying, “and we have found 
no trouble in maintaining law and order 
until these radical foreigners came among 
us. The meanest thing that has hap¬ 
pened here in years is the killing at Con¬ 
nors/ ’ 

“That criminal ought to be punished/’ 
said Sam. 

“Yes sir; we should make an example 
of him. But where is he! He’s disap¬ 
peared like magic. We have offered a 
reward of five hundred dollars for his 
apprehension, but nothing has come of it.” 

His talk was interrupted by the entrance 
of a rugged-looking man dressed in coarse 
gray clothes under a gray felt hat. His 
full, sandy beard was streaked with gray. 

238 


RIDDLES 


His gray eyes were deep-set under shaggy 
gray brows. He was an undersized man 
who walked as if he had been accustomed 
to heavy burdens. 

“Hello, Silas!” said David Galt in a 
cheerful tone, as he slashed a stout sliver 
from the pine stick. “I hope you’re going 
to give us something toward the new com¬ 
munity house.” 

“Not a cent!” snapped the newcomer. 
“We’re taxed to death now.” 

“But think of what we get for it,” said 
Galt. 

“What—I’d like to know?” 

“Better health, more comfort, good 
roads, good government.” 

“I don’t call it good government when 
a man can kill another an’ git away with¬ 
out bein’ punished. As to yer roads, 
they’re nothing but a thoroughfare for 
fools who waste their time on ’em. I’ve 
swore that I’ll never set a foot on them 
roads. If I did, I wouldn’t expect to git 

239 


RIDDLES 


off ’em alive. As to health an’ comfort, 
there’s less of it than there ever was in this 
community with the automobiles racin’ 
an’ tootin’ an’ killin’ folks.” 

The speaker had gathered his beard in 
his hand and was hanging on to it as if 
it were the tether of his disposition. Turn¬ 
ing to Sam Bullwether with a look of in¬ 
jury, the newcomer said: 

“I want a pound o’ crackers an’ a half 
a pound o’ cheese.” 

“Robber!” he growled as he paid for 
the packages. He retired from the store 
without speaking again. Mr. Galt fol¬ 
lowed him with a smile and a wink. 

“That was old Silas Gay lor,” said Sam. 
“He’s a queer one. Worth at least a quar¬ 
ter of a million dollars. Used to run a 
sawmill. Growls every time he gives up 
a cent. Had a quarrel with his brother 
Bill twenty years ago over the ownership 
of an old umbrella and hasn’t spoken to 

240 



RIDDLES 


him since. They pass each other on the 
street every day.” 

Jnst then Ah Risley, the village drunk¬ 
ard, came into the store and sat down. 

“What you been doin’ to old Sile Gay- 
lorf” he asked of Sam Bullwether. 

“Been chargin’ him twenty cents for 
some crackers and cheese.” 

“The way he’s growlin’ an’ hangin’ on 
to his whiskers is something awful,” said 
Risley. “I’m glad we’ve got high prices. 
I like to hear these old dubs holler. It’s 
got ’em all on a cracker an’ cheese diet. 
Maybe it’ll kill ’em off. He looks land 
o’ scrawny. One night when I was broke 
an’ settin’ in the park I fell asleep an’ 
dreamed that Sile Gaylor came along an’ 
give me five cents. It scairt me so I rolled 
off the bench and skinned my forehead on 
the side of a tree. It was one o ’ the mean¬ 
est things that Sile ever did. 01’ Black 
Mary found me there with blood on my 
face. She wet her handkerchief in the 

241 


RIDDLES 


fountain an’ cleaned me up an’ took 
me over to the dog wagon an ’ fed me. She 
ain’t got much money, but I think she’s 
worth more than any other person in this 
village, not exceptin’ Sile Gaylor. It does 
me good to hear the skinflints holler. I 
tell ye, me an’ Rat Waters have done a 
lot for this place.” 

Mr. Risley referred to Erastus Waters, 
the wealthy merchant and inn-keeper. It 
was a habit of his to speak of “me an’ Rat 
Waters.” 

“How so?” Mr. Bullwether asked. 

“We give folks somethin’ to talk about. 
Now, I’ve got an idea that ought to be a 
help. It beats the League o’ Nations all 
holler. It’ll put a stop to war absolutely.” 

‘ 4 What’s your idea ? ’ ’ the clerk inquired. 

“Make a law that nobody under forty 
can fight in a war. That’ll kill off the old 
duffers that have lived long enough. Then 
every year we’ll have an Expectoration 

242 


RIDDLES 


Day, when we can all go an* spit on their 
graves.’’ 

“Well, Ab, you better go home an’ sleep 
it off,” said Bullwether as he made ready 
to close the store. 

“Oh, idees ain’t like whisky,” said Ab 
as he started for the door. “When ye git 
drunk on idees it’s permanent. Ye never 
draw another sober breath.” 

To the end of that week Riddles went 
on with his work in the hayfield while 
the other men devoted their days to re¬ 
cuperation. Every evening he went down 
to Coulterville in one of the Maggie toters 
and had a smoke and a talk with Sam 1 
Bullwether. Henry Bradshaw, the young 
school superintendent, had sat with them 
one evening for an hour or so and had had 
a part in their talk. 

“There are a good many farms around 
here,” said Riddles. “What becomes of 
their product?” 

“It is millionaired,” said Bradshaw. 

243 


RIDDLES 


“What do yon mean?” 

“That it’s mostly wasted,” Bradshaw 
went on. “The rich folks don’t want to 
be bothered by raising stuff for market. 
It would be bad form. So when they get 
a farm they play with it. They put it out 
of business. It becomes just a big strip of 
scenery—a site for saddle trails, an arena 
in which man and master devote them¬ 
selves to killing time. Even the land be¬ 
comes an idler. It does nothing to relieve 
the pressure of scarcity and high prices. 
[You work on Mrs. Martin’s farm—one of 
the best in the countryside. What do you 
suppose has become of its products in the 
last two or three years?” 

“I guess there ain’t been any,” said 
Riddles. 

“You’re about right,” Bradshaw went 
on. “Instead of contributing a share of the 
necessaries of life, it has become a con¬ 
sumer devouring the substance of its 
owner and breaking down the habit of 

244 


RIDDLES 


industry and right thinking in its em¬ 
ployees. ’ ’ 

When Bradshaw went out of the store 
Riddles followed him. They walked to¬ 
gether through the village park. 

“Do you like Sam Bullwether?” Riddles 
asked. 

“Everybody likes Sam,” the teacher 
answered. “Talks too much, but he’s an 
honest, hard-working man.” 

“Would you care to take another school 
at double the salary you’ve been getting?” 

“I would,” said Bradshaw. “I can’t 
live on the salary I’ve been getting and 
have refused to sign for another year.” 

“I’ve been sizing you up, and I’ve de¬ 
cided that you’re a man that can be trusted 
and that you ought to have a bigger job. 
If you will promise to respect my con¬ 
fidence, I will lay my plan before you.” 

“I promise,” said Bradshaw. 

They sat down on a bench in the park 
and had a long talk which was interrupted 

245 


RIDDLES 


by a woman well past middle age who was 
neatly dressed in black. 

“God bless yon, gentlemen/ , she said in 
a pleasant voice. “Would you give me 
something for the poor?” 

They gave and she passed on. 

“Who is that?” Kiddles asked. 

“She is called Black Mary—a woman 
with an unfortunate past. Some say that 
she is not quite sound mentally. She has 
a good heart and really helps a lot of poor 
people, including herself, with the money 
she begs.” 

The clock struck eleven. 

“I must look up the Maggie toters,” 
said Riddles as he rose from the bench. 
“I’ll meet you here to-morrow evening at 
eight-thirty.” 

He had been planning a revolution, and 
next morning, bright and early, he got it 
under way. 

It was a still, clear Saturday morning. 

246 


RIDDLES 


Cawkins was twenty minutes late in get¬ 
ting out of his room. 

“There’s a lot of hay down and we ought 
to get it under cover before Sunday/’ said 
Riddles to him. 

“Don’t let that worry you,” Cawkins 
answered gruffly. 

The other men who had just come down 
from their quarters stood near him. 

“I’ve got somethin’ that belongs to 
you,” said Riddles with a look at Cawkins. 

“What’s that!” the latter asked. 

“A piece of information,” Riddles went 
on in a kindly voice. “It ought to be 
worth a lot to you, but I ain’t goin’ to 
charge ye a cent for it. Everybody knows 
it but you. Looks as if folks had been 
tryin’ to keep it from ye. There’s been a 
death in your family.” 

“What!” Cawkins exclaimed. “Who’s 
dead!” 

“Your soul,” Riddles answered calmly. 

247 


RIDDLES 


“What do ye mean?” Cawkins de¬ 
manded. 

Riddles answered very gently as he 
whittled with his jack-knife. 

“I mean that you’re a crook—a dirty, 
disreputable, damn crook. It wouldn’t 
matter so much, but you are makin’ crooks 
o’ these men. If they were in the army 
they would be led out and shot for deser¬ 
tion in the face of the enemy and for 
sleepin’ at their posts. They would de¬ 
serve it. You are turning them into crim¬ 
inals. It’s just as bad to steal this 
woman’s time as to steal her money.” 

For half a moment Cawkins was dumb 
with astonishment. Riddles’s masterly 
self-possession had floored him. There 
was no room for argument as to the facts 
stated. If Riddles’s manner had been loud 
and quarrelsome Cawkins w r ould, in some 
fashion, have had it out with him on the 
spot. But the new man had made him feel 
like clay in the hands of the potter. 

248 


RIDDLES 


“What are ye going to do about it?” he 
demanded under his breath. 

“Goin’ to be very nice to ye,” said Rid¬ 
dles in the same gentle tone. “Goin’ to 
give ye a chance to reform an’ live honest 
an’ put in a day’s work for a day’s pay. 
If you refuse to do that, I’ll have a talk 
with the madam. ’ ’ 

“You can go plumb to hell!” said 
Cawkins angrily. 

“Now don’t keep pointin’ the wrong 
way—like a misplaced sign-board,” Rid¬ 
dles answered. 

Suddenly Miss Harriet Martin stepped 
out of the wood-shed and confronted the 
group of men. She was dressed for the 
saddle. Riddles enjoyed telling his friends 
of the freshness and beauty of her face, 
of the erectness of her figure and of the 
indignation in her dark eyes as she stood 
before them. 

“I was drawing on my boots in the shed 
where Mary had polished them,” said the 

249 


RIDDLES 


young lady. “I couldn’t help hearing 
your talk.” She turned to Riddles and 
added: “Reuben Smith, I thank you and 
shall always be grateful to you. We have 
known of the shameless conduct of these 
men. But we have not known what to do 
about it. I shall ask my mother to put 
you in charge of them.” 

“If you believe that liar, we will walk 
out to-day—the whole force—women an’ 
men,” Cawkins threatened. 

‘ ‘ Miss Martin, if I was you I would say, 
‘Walk!’ ” said Riddles. 

The young lady turned to Cawkins and 
said “Walk!” in the same quiet tone that 
Riddles had used. 

The whole force left that morning. Only 
Mrs. Martin’s maid remained. The chauf¬ 
feur took them to Coulterville. Riddles 
hired a neighbor, whose haying was fin¬ 
ished, to clean up the meadow flat. 



CHAPTER THREE 


The Young Millionaire, Having Won the 
Confidence of His Employers and Be¬ 
ing Highly Sympathetic, Becomes a 
Useful Butler, and Interests Himself 
in the Welfare of a Young Lady and 
Her Mother. He Learns Also of the 
Plans and Profiteering of Erastus 
Waters and Lays a Plan of His Own. 


“TTTE have decided to give you a room 
H in the house now that the maids 
are gone,” Mrs. Martin said to Riddles on 
his return. “You will have a bath and 
books to read if you care for them. Come, 
I will show it to you.’ ’ 

“The bath will be kind o’ soothin’,” 
said Riddles as he followed her. 

251 


RIDDLES 


When they had come to the room she 
added: ‘‘Here are some clothes and hoots 
which belonged to my husband. I wish 
you would try them on and let us see how 
you look. Would you mind?” 

“Not a bit,” Riddles answered. 

“Try the riding breeches and the gray 
coat. When you are ready, come down to 
the sun parlor.” 

There were a number of suits of clothes 
and undergarments hanging in the closet. 
There were soft, flannel shirts and collars 
and neckties on the chiffonier. Riddles 
took a luxurious bath and put on clean 
underclothes and the riding costume of 
the late Mr. Martin, all of which fitted 
him fairly well. 

“My word!” Miss Harriet exclaimed as 
he entered the sun parlor. “I wouldn’t 
know him.” 

“Nor I. He’s quite a different man,” 
said Mrs. Martin. “If you don’t mind, 
I wish you would help my maid with the 

252 


RIDDLES 


luncheon. Mr. Waters is going to be here 
and we ’ll have to make out the best we can. 
After luncheon I want you to ride down to 
Bellemead with Harriet and try to get a 
cook.” 

Riddles broiled the steak while the maid 
baked the crust for the shortcake and 
heated a can of soup. The maid, who was 
not accustomed to cooking, burnt her hand 
in the oven and was not able to do the 
serving. 

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll jump in 
and do my best,” Riddles said to Mrs. 
Martin when the, latter came into the 
kitchen. 

He was an admirable butler. That 
dining-room had never seen a more per¬ 
fect or a more dignified service. As the 
luncheon progressed Mrs. Martin told of 
her troubles. She had had bad luck in 
speculation. Her debts were pressing. 

“How much do you owe on this place?” 
Waters asked. 


253 


RIDDLES 


“Thirty-five thousand dollars and the 
other debts are as much more. But my 
equity in the New York house is more 
than enough to cover them.” 

“I’d sell this place , 99 said Waters. “It’s 
an elephant on your hands. It has been 
walking on you. Get rid of it. Put it up 
at auction, then nobody can complain of 
the price it brings.” 

“I am in love with this farm,” said Har¬ 
riet with a look of alarm. 

“I’ll bid it in and see that it brings 
enough to pay the debts,” Waters an¬ 
swered. “If anybody will pay you more, 
I’ll meet them. Then you can live here 
as long as you like and have no trouble 
with the details of management. I’ll build 
a farmhouse and put a man here to look 
after it. I could use the produce in my 
stores at Coulterville and Nutwood.” 

About three o’clock Riddles and Miss 
Harriet Martin set out for Bellemead. He 

254 


RIDDLES 


was an admirable rider, as the young lady 
was quick to observe. 

“Smith, is there anything that you can 
not do?” she asked. “You are a mys¬ 
terious man. We don’t know what to 
make of you.” 

“Don’t try to make anything of me— 
my father tried that long ago and failed. 
Then I took up the job and have made— 
well, some whiskers and a few resolu¬ 
tions.” 

“And at least two friends and a capital 
likeness of Uncle Sam,” said Miss Harriet. 
“I’d love to see you dressed for the part. 
If you don’t object, I’m going to call you 
Uncle Sam, Jr.” 

“Go ahead. I don’t mind being your 
uncle—if—if you need one and will be 
kind to me.” 

They were near the grove where Bid¬ 
dles had given away his clothes. In a 
cornfield, nearly opposite, he saw a scare¬ 
crow dressed in the faded, ragged and 

255 





RIDDLES 


familiar garments of the tramp, which 
had been left on the river shore. It was 
crowned with the old straw hat. They 
rode on to the thriving little city where 
they found that there were no servants to 
be had on short notice. 

‘ 4 Never mind, I have a very good plan,” 
said Eiddles as they started back. 

“What is it?” Miss Harriet asked. 

“I’ll lay out the work and each will have 
his job and we *11 all get busy. You see 
there will be no one sleeping in the hay 
meadow and coming up to meals. I’ll 
cook the beefsteaks if you’ll agree to keep 
your temper while you’re eating ’em. 
Also, I will do the marketing and mind the 
garden. Mary can do the waiting and the 
down-stairs work.” 

“And mother and I will attend to the 
chambers. I love to work. I had thought 
of your plan but, honestly, I didn’t dare 
to propose it.” 

“Why?” 


256 


RIDDLES 


“For fear you’d give notice and quit.” 

“Now that I see you’re willin’ to do 
your share, I give notice that I shall not 
quit until your trouble has backed up an’ 
turned around an’ begun to move away.” 

“I’d love to know how it happened that 
you became a tramp farmer,” the young 
lady remarked after a little silence. 

“That is not a tale for the saddle. It 
would be dangerous. You’d need to have 
both feet on the ground an’ somethin’ to 
lean on. Besides, you wouldn’t believe 
it until—until you know me better. I can 
hardly believe it myself. Some time, on a 
rainy day, I’ll tell you the story.” 

When they rode up to the gate young 
Percy Waters was standing there. He 
assisted Miss Harriet to dismount and 
greeted Piddles with these words: 

“Smitty, you look like a new man. 
Why don’t you cut that bunch of whiskers 
off your chin?” 

“That’s my fool catcher,” said Riddles 

257 


RIDDLES 


as lie took out a pencil and began to make 
an entry in a little memorandum book. 
“It's somethin’ like the cowcatcher on a 
locomotive. Ye see when a man gits care¬ 
less at the muzzle end of a set of whiskers 
an’ didn’t know they was loaded, he’s it. 
Every time I meet one I put down a 
straight mark. This time I guess I’ll put 
down two—’cause there’s some that counts 
double. ’ ’ 

Miss Harriet laughed as Percy changed 
color. The young man was filled with con¬ 
fusion while Riddles rode away with the 
horses. 

“I sure got mine—didn’t I?” said 
Percy. 

“You sure did!” the young lady an¬ 
swered. “That fellow is some man, be¬ 
lieve me.” 

Then she told of Riddles’s talk with 
Cawkins and of his work in the kitchen 
and dining-room. 

That evening Riddles drove to Coulter- 

258 


RIDDLES 


ville in one of the Ford cars. There he 
found a letter, sent in care of Mrs. Martin, 
which has its bearing on the events of this 
little history. This is the letter: 


Dear Smith : 

I am in the way of getting a fine job—- 
just the one of all others for which I am 
qualified by nature and education. God 
knows I dislike to ask you for more help, 
but a trifle of one hundred dollars—for 
while it is much to me, I can not help think¬ 
ing that it is a trifle to you—would clear 
the way for me to success. It would help 
me to go forward, a wiser man with all my 
errors behind me. You are my only friend 
and I have a sublime faith in your good¬ 
ness, dear Smith. Do not fail me and I 
promise you an achievement worthy of 
your patience. 

Sincerely yours, 

J. Reginald Travers. 

Riddles bought a check from Bullwether 
and sent it on that night with a note which 
said: 


259 


RIDDLES 


Dear Travers: 

I enclose the check you ask for. I am 
not easily discouraged. I hope that the 
investment will turn out well, and that 
whatever your past has been there will be 
no mistakes in the future. 

Sincerely, 

Smith. 

Eiddles learned that evening from Bull- 
wether that the man Cawkins had been 
spreading evil gossip regarding Mrs. Mar¬ 
tin and her daughter and hinting at dark 
thoughts regarding the intimacy of the 
latter with the new hired man. The dis¬ 
guised mill-owner was indignant. Until 
after ten o’clock he sat in the store with 
a group of men who were exchanging remi¬ 
niscences of the village. 

“It ought to be called Thief Center,” 
said Ezra Jenkins, a retired farmer with 
a full beard. “There are more pious, 
unconvicted thieves in this place than in 
any other part of the uncivilized world. 
The worst part of it is they don’t suspect 

260 


RIDDLES 


themselves. They’re so busy watchin’ 
other folks that the real criminal gets away 
with the goods right under their eyes. I 
cal’late that a man who is a thief an’ don’t 
know it is worse than one that’s better 
informed.” 

“What do you mean?” asked the Rev¬ 
erend Horace Wells, the young Presby¬ 
terian minister. 

“I mean the folks who keep borryin’ 
things an’ never give ’em back—or take 
all the value out of ’em before ye see ’em 
again,” Mr. Jenkins answered. 

“That’s right! Yes, sir!” exclaimed a 
chorus of voices. 

“Why, one feller borry’d my wheel- 
barrer an’ busted it an’ patched it up a 
little an’ sent it back—spoilt,” Mr. Jen¬ 
kins went on. “A woman borry’d a 
pound o’ butter an’ sent back some that 
was so bad we couldn’t use it. Another 
woman borry’d sevent 3 r -five cents an’ has 
been three years tryin’ to think to pay it 

261 


RIDDLES 


back an’ ain’t succeeded yet, an’ she’s 
well off, too.” 

“I’ve had all kinds of things borry’d 
from me—umbrellas an’ saws an’ rakes 
an’ augers an’ gimlets an’ hammers an’ a 
real split-bamboo fish-rod,” said Henry 
Silcock, the village carpenter. 

“An’ never seen ’em ag’in,” said the 
pessimistic Mr. Jenkins. 

“Oh yes, I have—I’ve seen ’em often 
in the other feller’s hands,” Mr. Silcock 
affirmed. “Once I asked a man for a saw 
o’ mine that he was usin’ an’ he was so 
mad he ain’t spoke to me since.” 

“There’s a town in the West where, 
once a year, they have what they call a 
‘Take-It-Back Day,’ ” said the Reverend 
Wells. “Every one goes over his effects 
carefully and takes back what has been 
borrowed. If he can not remember where 
he borrowed it he takes it to the village 
park where its owner may find and claim 
it. It is a kind of ‘Tell-the-Truth Day’— 

262 




RIDDLES 


a day of public confession, a day of for¬ 
giving and good will. If any man has 
wronged his neighbor he can take it back 
and clean his conscience if he wishes to do 
so. Of course, it’s a great chance for the 
ministers. They go to work and get the 
tow T n ready for this day of days. It would 
be a salutary experience for the village of 
Coulterville.” 

‘‘Why don’t you try it?” the new hired 
man asked. 

“I’ve been thinking of that,” Mr. Wells 
answered. “I’m going to get the other 
ministers together and talk it over.” 

When Riddles left the store that evening 
he went to a certain bench in the park 
where he had an appointment with Henry 
Bradshaw. In the course of their talk the 
former said: 

“I wish you would have a talk with the 
Reverend Wells about his plan for a Take- 
It-Back Day. Tell him you have a friend 
of means who likes the idea and will do 

263 


RIDDLES 


what he can to help.” Their talk was in¬ 
terrupted by the thorny tongue of Ab 
Risley, who came along laughing as if he 
were having a good time with himself. 

“Say, me and Rat Waters have got some 
job on our hands,” he declared. “Percy 
has been up to his tricks ag’in.” 

“What has Percy been doing?” Brad¬ 
shaw asked. 

“Took a couple o’ gals over to Spell¬ 
man’s an’ got ’em drunk an’ had an awful 
careless time. Me an’ the ol’ man have 
been flyin’ around to-day an’ have got it 
all hushed up. One o’ the gals is over to 
Black Mary’s an’ is purty sick. Don’t you 
say a word. We’ve spent hundreds o’ 
dollars to keep it quiet.” 

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Waters left 
one leak in the pail,” Bradshaw said to 
Riddles as they left the park together. 
“That leak was Ab Risley. He knows 
all the undercurrents of our life.” 

“Is Percy really so bad?” Riddles asked. 

264 


RIDDLES 


“He is the limit,” Bradshaw answered. 
“Yet, his father’s wealth and influence 
have kept him from disgrace. He moves 
in the best society.” 


CHAPTER FOUR 


The Distinguished Millionaire Gets the 
Gossip of the War Village and Learns 
of the Perils Which Threaten His 
Employers—Especially Miss Harriet, 
in Whom He Is Deeply Interested. 
He Warns Her and Is Presently Ar¬ 
rested for Murder. In the Midst of 
This He Meets Travers and Hears an 
Astonishing Confession and Loses His 
Job on Suspicion. 

A S the days passed Mrs. Martin and 
her daughter relied more and more 
on the wisdom and efficiency of their new 
hired man. He had sold the crops and a 
part of the stock; he had hired a faithful 
man and wife—the latter to do the cooking. 

266 



RIDDLES 


His droll talk was a source of interest and 
delight to the ladies so that they were glad 
to make occasion for it. 

Late in the week Miss Martin came to 
Riddles with a circular in her hands. He 
sat on the kitchen steps grinding a meat 
knife. 

“Here is good news,” said she. “Some 
one has opened a new store in Coulter- 
ville. They say it’s some millionaire who ? s 
trying to kill the profiteers. Just read the 
program . 1 9 

Riddles read the circular aloud as fol¬ 
lows: 

The Rescue Mercantile Company un¬ 
limited ( in scope and capital) will open its 
store in Coulterville July 20th. It will 
sell for cash only the best meats and gro¬ 
ceries at a reasonable margin of profit. 

Its purpose is to grapple with the noted 
highwayman H. C. L. and throw him 
down and hold and bind him. No com¬ 
missions to butlers or farm superintend¬ 
ents will be paid, directly or indirectly, by 

267 


RIDDLES 


this company. The householders of the 
community are requested to assist us in 
this worthy and patriotic service by doing 
their own shopping. In this fight with 
new enemies don’t be a slacker. All lines 
of trade and industry are hereby warned 
that profiteering must stop in Coulter- 
ville. 

A long list of prices on meats and 
staple groceries followed and the circular 
was signed “Henry Bradshaw, Manager.” 

“I wonder who’s doing that,” said Miss 
Harriet. “It’s real patriotism.” 

“It’s going over the top, in a way,” said 
Riddles. “I wonder what Erastus Waters 
will say to that?” 

“I’m afraid that his profits have been 
rather large,” the young lady answered. 

“I guess they’re about as big as the 
troubles of the rest of us an’ if you don’t 
look out you’re going to be figured in with 
the profits,” said Riddles as he thought¬ 
fully whetted his knife. “Say, I’m kind o’ 
sorry for you.” 


268 


RIDDLES 


“Uncle Sam, Jr., what do you mean?” 
she asked. 

Riddles felt the edge of the knife as he 
answered: 

“Well, ye know, there’s some things that 
ought to be said to you, an’ you ain’t got 
no father or brother to say ’em as far as 
I can see.” 

“If you know what they are, why don’t 
you say ’em?” Miss Harriet asked. 

“May I?” . 

“Of course you may, Uncle Sam, Jr. I 
have the greatest confidence in your good 
sense and in your friendly feeling toward 
us.” 

Riddles went on with his grinding as 
he said: “Well, my first subject will be 
Percy. He’s a little like Cawkins. His 
education has been neglected. He may 
know a lot o’ Greek an’ Latin, but he’s 
terrible ignorant about—” Riddles paused 
as he felt the edge of the knife—“Percy,” 
he went on. “I suppose there’s been no- 

269 


RIDDLES 


body who has dared to give him any 
schoolin’ in that subject. Some day I’m 
likely to do it.” 

“We don’t know much about his char¬ 
acter, and I have told my mother that I 
thought we needed instruction,” Miss Har¬ 
riet said very soberly. 

“Everybody has it but you. Percy is 
as well known here as the multiplication 
table. There isn’t a grocer’s clerk or a 
scrub-woman in Coulterville that couldn’t 
tell you all about Percy, if they dared to 
do it. I’m not terribly afraid o’ Percy or 
his father, so if you want it, you’ll get 
instruction, and it’ll be as free as the air 
ye breathe.” 

“We shall think it a great favor and 
treat it in confidence.” 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Riddles went on. 
!“As I said before, Percy ought to know 
these things. I told him the other evening 
that he ought not to be drivin’ around 
half-drunk with kalsomined women, and 

270 


RIDDLES 


then be coinin’ here to see a girl like you. 
So he knows that much, if he can learn. 
But he has done worse things. You see, 
Erastus is kind o ’ worried about him. He 
wants to get him off the kalsomine level , 1 
an’ you are the first step. He’s made up 
his mind that you could take Percy and 
make a man o’ him. His mother tried it 
and failed. He wants you to be mother 
number two. Now the fact is, a man that 
needs a second mother will need several 
wives. The plan is to buy you for an edu¬ 
cator an’ pleader an’ weeper an’ nurse an’ 
general superintendent. There’s more to 
be said, but I guess I’ve gone far enough.” 

“Go on, I want to hear it all,” said Miss 
Martin as she sat with her chin upon her 
hands, a look of interest in her face. 

“Why, if Erastus Waters buys this 
place and you an’ your mother live here 
under his roof, more or less dependent on 
him, I can see your finish. You don’t know 
what it is to be poor, and I fear that you’re 

271 


RIDDLES 


likely to know, an* you’ve never learned 
how to take care of yourself.” 

4 4 Uncle Sam, yon are a very wise man, 
but I am sure you are wrong this time,” 
said Miss Harriet. “Mr. Waters used to 
go to school with my mother. They have 
been friends for thirty years. His motives 
are unselfish, and I can’t see why he should 
be questioned in the performance of a 
kindly act.” 

44 He may have the motives of an angel; 
but his history is a little off color. It don’t 
inspire my confidence. Anyhow, before 
you fall into his hands, it will do ye no 
harm to have one piece of information 
that comes purty nigh bein’ awful impor¬ 
tant to you. But I guess I better stop 
talkin’ an’ cut some meat for dinner.” 

“You stay right where you are an’ tell 
me,” Miss Harriet commanded. 44 Dinner 
can wait. I can’t.” 

44 Why the fact is, I’m wearin’ your knife 

272 


RIDDLES 


out,” said Riddles as lie went on with the 
grinding. 

4 ‘Is that all you have to say!” she ex¬ 
claimed impatiently. 

“No; there’s a lot more sayin’ to be 
done, but just now this is all the corn I’m 
goin’ to husk. I know a feller that’s in 
love with ye. He’s rich an’ good-lookin’ 
an’ well broke an’ intelligent an’ stylish 
an’ sound an’ kind an’ sixteen hands high 
•—good head an’ neck too. Got more 
friends than you could shake a stick at. 
•You wouldn’t know him from a side o’ 
sole leather; but he’s seen ye an’ knows 
all about ye. I used to work for his father 
an’ I know him down to the ground. He’s 
all right. He’s crazy to show himself here, 
but I’ve kep’ him away.” 

“Kept him away! For goodness sake! 
Why don’t you let me have a look at him? 
But, of course, he’s one of your jokes.” 

“Look here, Miss Martin, I ain’t as 
smart as some folks, but I come purty nigh 

273 


RIDDLES 


knowin’ when a joke is a crime. It 
wouldn’t do any harm for ye to take a look 
at him an’ then, if ye care to know him 
better, he can give ye his pedigree an’ 
references. If not, why you can trust him 
to go about his business. He won’t bother 
ye— none! I’ll see to that. A word from 
you and he’ll be here; the most likeable 
feller you’ve ever known.” 

“And you say he’s well educated and 
young and good-looking, and—and rich?” 
Miss Harriet asked with a smile of amuse¬ 
ment. 

“That’s what I say. Got a sheepskin 
from Yale. That ought to mean a good 
education. As to looks, he ’ll have to show 
the goods, and as to character an’ riches, 
they can be proved easy.” 

“How romantic!—like the tale of a fairy 
prince,” the young lady exclaimed with a 
glow of enthusiasm in her eyes. 

Their talk was interrupted by the honk 
and rush of an automobile. Percy’s big 

274 



RIDDLES 


racing runabout stopped witli a loud snort 
on the drive opposite the kitchen veranda 
where Miss Harriet sat with the late Mr. 
Biddles. Young Mr. Waters and a stout, 
red-faced, rugged-looking man of middle 
age in a pair of spectacles that seemed to 
magnify the size of his eyes stepped from 
the car and approached the little veranda. 

“Miss Martin—this is Mr. Simpson, the 
constable/’ said Percy. “We have come 
to arrest your hired man—Reuben Smith.” 

Mr. Simpson bowed and lifting his gray 
felt hat mopped his perspiring brow with 
his handkerchief. 

“You—you have come to arrest Reuben 
Smith?” said the young lady as her face 
began to turn pale. “What for?” 

Simpson cleared his throat and read¬ 
justed his spectacles. There was a slight 
tremor in his hands as he took a document 
from his pocket, opened the same and 
began to read in a voice much louder than 
was necessary: 


275 


RIDDLES 


4 ‘The complainant, Eobert Fosdick, 
manufacturer, of said village of Connors, 
deposes and says that in the course of a 
strike which began in his works on the 
first of May, 1918, one Eeuben Smith, an 
employee in said works, had incited his 
men to sundry acts of violence and that on 
the tenth of May of the same year, he 
hurled a brick at one Henry Taylor, an 
elderly man, going peacefully to his work, 
inflicting injuries as a result of which 
Taylor died on the first day of June, 1918.” 

Mr. Simpson paused. 

“I do not believe it,” said Miss Harriet 
Martin. 

Then Percy spoke out, saying: “Do you 
remember on the evening of the picnic at 
Pine Grove, Mr. Travers told us that he 
had bought clothes for this man from a 
traveling pedler and induced him to take 
a bath and to leave his tramp garments 
on the river-bank?” 

Miss Martin nodded. 

276 


RIDDLES 


“ Those clothes are now on a scarecrow 
in our corn-field near the road. In driv¬ 
ing by the scarecrow Mr. Fosdick recog¬ 
nized the hat and clothes, and we were able 
to tell him the name of their owner, who is 
undoubtedly this man.” 

“Say, boy, did you ever see me wearin’ 
that suit o’ clothes?” Riddles asked very 
calmly. 

“No,” Percy answered. 

“Did your father ever see me wearin’ 
’em?” 

“No.” 

“Then how do you know they was my 
clothes? 

“By what Mr. Travers said.” 

“Oh, it’s Mr. Travers that knows and 
not you. Did he go an’ point ’em out to 
ye an’ tell ye they was my clothes?” 

“No.” 

“All right. Now I’m ready to be ar¬ 
rested,” said Riddles as he continued to 
whet the knife. 


277 


RIDDLES 


“If you’ll get in with us, we’ll take ye 
over to the county seat,” said the con¬ 
stable. 

“I’ll take him in my car, if you please,” 
said Miss Martin. “You can come along 
with us if you like.” Turning to Riddles 
she added, “I’ll get some clothes for you, 
and be ready in five minutes.” 

“I shall not need ’em,” said Riddles. 
“I shall return before night.” 

“You’re going to be put in jail,” said 
Percy. 

“Am I!” Riddles exclaimed. “Say, 
boy, if you stop growin’ till you see me in 
jail, you’ll be a jack-rabbit as long as you 
live.” 

The chauffeur had brought up the car, 
and the young lady got in with the con¬ 
stable and his prisoner. They rode to 
Coulterville, and no words passed between 
them. Riddles appeared quite uncon¬ 
cerned. 

“Now, Miss Harriet, this is goin’ to be 

278 


RIDDLES 


a kind of a trial o’ your faith in me, ’’ said 
Riddles as he dismounted with the con¬ 
stable at the county seat and bade her 
good-by. “Ye can give up meat an’ drink 
an’ hope an’ charity an* life; but faith— 
if it has a good solid foundation—is a 
thing to be clung to. If you’ll hang on to 
your faith in me, I’ll promise to prove that 
it’s worth havin’. ” 

“I do not expect to lose it,” she an¬ 
swered, as she offered him her hand. “But, 
Smith, we—we have grown rather fond of 
you. We like you and—and I can’t help 
being worried.” 

“Don’t worry. My record is clean,” he 
assured her. “I’ll be back at the farm 
this evening an’ then there’ll be some 
things said.” 

“I’ll wait and take you back with me,” 
said the young lady. 

‘ 4 Don’t do that, ’ ’ said Riddles. ‘ ‘ I don’t 
want you to get mixed up in this matter. 
Just leave it to me. I ask it as a favor.” 

279 



RIDDLES 


So they parted, and Riddles went with 
Percy and the constable. 

The justice fixed a day for the examina¬ 
tion of the prisoner and his bail at five 
thousand dollars. To the astonishment of 
the official Mr. Reuben Smith was in no 
way embarrassed by the amount of the 
bail demanded. He had the money in his 
wallet. 

“I ain’t apt to carry that amount in my 
pocket,” he said. “But I’ve been too busy 
to take it to a bank an’ so here it is.” 

The justice went over to the bank with 
the bills and learned that they were per¬ 
fectly good, whereupon the amount was 
deposited with the county treasurer and 
the prisoner released. 

Riddles got a ride back to the Martin 
farm, reaching there about four o’clock. 
A large new motor-car stood in the drive. 
Its chauffeur moved the car out of their 
way. Miss Martin and her mother sat on 
the veranda with a handsomely dressed 

280 

I 


RIDDLES 


gentleman. Miss Harriet came to the 
kitchen door where Riddles had alighted 
and shook hands with him. 

“Glad to welcome yon hack home,” she 
said. “How did you get along?” 

“I’m out on bail, until the day of my 
examination, when I shall prove an alibi.” 

“A friend of yours is on the veranda. 
Will you come and meet him?” 

The friend was J. Reginald Travers who 
rose and gave his hand to the hired man. 

“My good fellow, I am quite surprised 
by the news of you!” said Travers. “It is 
—shall I say?—natural that the best of 
men should have a bit of a fling now and 
then; but, really, I am astonished that you 
should have flung a brick at the dear old 
gentleman.” 

“I like a little excitement once in a 
while, but I have never tried to build it 
out of bricks,” said Riddles with a smile. 

“Quite so—of course,” Travers agreed. 
“One has only to look into your face to be 

281 


RIDDLES 


assured of that. I have heard of your 
good behavior here, and I need not say 
how much it has pleased me. If we may 
have the permission of these ladies I 
should like you to ride with me to the 
nearest village.” Turning to the ladies he 
added: “I shall not keep him long.” 

“ Indeed, we are glad that you feel such 
an interest in him,” said Mrs. Martin. 

Riddles sat on the top step of the 
veranda. Evidently Travers was getting 
along. He was dressed in new and well- 
tailored garments. Doubtless he "wished to 
make a report and Riddles was eager to 
learn the nature of it. He had not an¬ 
swered the suggestion of Travers. 

“Uncle Sam, Jr., "why don’t you go with 
the gentleman!” said Mrs. Martin. ‘‘ It’s 
getting cool and you had better put on the 
overcoat that hangs in your closet.” 

“Thank you,” said the hired man as he 
left them. 

“I wish to have a talk with him,” said 

282 


RIDDLES 


Travers to the ladies. “ Perhaps I could 
add to his comfort by some—trifling gift. 
I am really quite interested in the fellow. 
For one of his class he is—I should say— 
most remarkable.” 

“We can give him all the clothes he 
will need,” said Mrs. Martin. “I suppose 
he will talk to you more freely. He is a 
little shy with us. I wish you could learn 
where he comes from and something about 
him. He has a clever way of dodging our 
questions and we’re awfully anxious to 
know of his past. I think he must be a man 
of good connections.” 

“Anyhow, he’s a man of very good 
sense,” said Travers. “I confess that I, 
as well as you, am anxious to know of his 
pahst. You may be sure I will do my best 
to enlighten you.” 

Riddles returned and, with Travers, 
entered the handsome limousine uphol¬ 
stered with purple velvet waiting in the 
drive, and drove away. 

283 


RIDDLES 


i 1 Well, old man, what has happened to 
you?” Biddles asked. 

Travers slapped his thigh and laughed. 
“Beally, you know, Pm the luckiest man!” 

“Say, please stop this J. Beginald busi¬ 
ness and get down to straight talk,” said 
Biddles. 

“The fact is I don’t dare—I’ve got to 
keep it up or I shall be ruined. I’ve mar¬ 
ried the dear old girl!” 

“What dear old girl?” 

“Mrs. Pulsifer!” 

“Gosh almighty!” Biddles exclaimed. 
“I didn’t intend to set a trap for the widow 
Pulsifer when I gave you that suit of 
clothes.” 

“Deah Smith—don’t worry! It’s a 
great thing for the both of us. You see she 
took to me at once. She loves the Eng¬ 
lish.” Travers interrupted himself with 
laughter. “A rather rusty old dame, but 
a good heart, ’ ’ he went on. ‘ 4 She owns two 
big mills—cotton mills. I know some- 

284 



RIDDLES 


thing about the game. Made a few sug¬ 
gestions that she liked. We agreed per¬ 
fectly on the subject of ethereal substances. 
I got a friend of mine to come on from 
Boston in glad rags. He had a talk with 
the dear old girl about me. We were 
married, privately, next day. I have taken 
hold of the plahnts. They needed me. I 
shall make good. No more poverty in 
mine. ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid I can not congratulate 
you,” said Riddles. “I fear it will be a 
short happiness.’’ 

“Why?” 

“Do you really wish to know?” 

“I am quite ready,” said Travers. 

“Well, the only safe foundation for 
happiness is the truth. You have a false 
name and a false accent.” 

“Deah Smith, so have you.” 

“But I’m not using mine for the pur¬ 
pose of catching a wife.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Travers 

285 


RIDDLES 


asked. “If I’m any judge the girl is 
rather interested.” 

“Well, if I should ever have the good 
fortune to marry any one, I should do it 
under my own name,” said Riddles. 

“So should I have done; but the name 
and the accent were assumed, as you know, 
on the spur of the moment to satisfy my 
whim, and circumstances have compelled 
me to keep them. Of course, I shall have 
to make a clean breast of it one of these 
days.” 

“But that friend from Boston!” Rid¬ 
dles exclaimed. “It looks as if you had 
buncoed the old lady.” 

“Deah Smith! It’s not so bad as it 
looks. It was only a piece of good adver¬ 
tising. I am aware that my history is not 
all that it should have been, but my pros¬ 
pects are dazzling. I advertised the 
prospects. I did it with no intention of 
deceiving the old lady. I am really trying 
to be just what I pretend to be—a gentle- 

286 



RIDDLES 


man. I hope yon do not think it so im¬ 
possible that I have no right to count upon 
it. As you know, I slipped into the job 
by accident and I find it most agreeable. 
I’m going to stick to it. If you will help 
me, I shall succeed.” 

“But Travers! It’s some contract,” 
said Riddles. “You are wanted for mur¬ 
der, and in the same county where your 
wife is living.” 

4 i Deah Smith! As long as I can keep my 
courage I am in no danger. Nobody would 
know me. Anyhow, I have a wall of 
friends around my sacred form. I have 
played many parts, but this one of gentle¬ 
man is my masterpiece because I love the 
part. You are the only critic I fear. You 
could ruin the play.” 

“First, I want to know if you have any 
other wife,” Riddles demanded. 

“She is my one and only wife.” 

“Just what do you intend to do?” 

“I’m going to work and I shall make the 

287 


RIDDLES 


old lady as happy as I can. She is a good 
soul. I like her. I’ve tried all the follies 
there are, deah Smith, but don’t think that 
I have lost the power to appreciate a re¬ 
fined and decent woman. My mother was 
just that kind of woman.” 

In the talk of Travers there was no trace 
of the playful irony which had flavored his 
conversation when he and Riddles had 
first met. There were signs of a rather 
deep change in him. He was serious. He 
jumped in and out of his dialect as if, in 
his earnestness, he were, now and then, 
forgetting it. Riddles sat thinking as he 
smoked the cigarette which Travers had 
given him. 

“You’re a clever man, but I wonder if 
you can put this over,” said he. “You’re 
in wrong so far—you’ve built on the sand 
—but if you really want to be square, I 
suppose you can move the structure to firm 
ground. Now I’ll tell you what I’m going 
to do. I’m going to keep watch on you. 

288 


RIDDLES 


If you go to work and do the right thing 
by the old lady, I’ll do what I can to help 
you. If you don’t—you will find yourself 
in the hands of the law.” 

“Deah Smith, I thank you!” Travers 
exclaimed. “You will see that I have a 
real gift for the art of being a gentle¬ 
man.” 

“There’s a little too much art about you, 
my boy,” said Riddles. “Show me the 
heart of a gentleman and I’m with you.” 

“My heart might be better, deah friend 
—I do not need to be reminded of that,” 
said Travers. “ Still it is improving. You 
will acknowledge that, deah Smith, when 
you know the truth. This morning I saw 
my brother-in-law, Mr. David Galt, and 
we had some talk about you.” 

A sudden, penetrating flash of light fell 
into the consciousness of the late Mr. 
Riddles, sweeping every shadow from its 
remote reaches. In the startling surprises 
of that conversation he had failed to recall 

289 


RIDDLES 


the fact that the impressionable Mrs. 
Pulsifer was the sister of David Galt. 
Travers had been quite right in thinking 
himself lucky. 

“You are a clever man,” said Riddles. 
“I wonder what was said about me.” 

“Deah Smith, he told me of the sus¬ 
picions that were entertained of you. I 
told him the truth, that I had known you 
for some time, and had the highest regard 
for you, and that they were barking up the 
wrong tree.” 

“But what am I to do under examina¬ 
tion?” Riddles asked. “I shall have 
to-” 

“Tell the truth, I suppose,” Travers 
interrupted. “I’ll see that the examina¬ 
tion is adjourned for a month. Then it 
may never have to come off.” 

Riddles sat in silence while Travers re¬ 
turned the sums he had borrowed. 

They were nearing the gate of Mrs. 
Martin. 


290 



RIDDLES 


“If you don’t mind, I’ll drop you at the 
gate,” said Travers as he signaled the 
driver. “I’m likely to be late to dinner, 
and some guests are coming. Deah Smith, 
I promise that my behavior will give you 
no cause for regret.” 

They parted, and as Eiddles entered the 
gate he met Percy Waters driving out. 

“Mrs. Martin wishes to see you at 
once,” said her maid when Riddles entered 
the kitchen. “You will find her in the 
library. ’ ’ 

In a moment the hired man had found 
her and Miss Harriet. He did not get the 
pleasant greeting which he had been wont 
to receive from them. There was a touch 
of sternness in Mrs. Martin’s voice when 
she said: 

6 6 Smith, we must have a frank talk with 
you. Sit down and tell us where you come 
from and who you are. ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Martin, I thought you wanted 
help and not history,” said Riddles. 

291 


RIDDLES 


“We didn’t ask for references, but now 
I think we shall have to do it,” she went 
on. “I am sure you will agree with me 
that it is a little unusual for a hired man 
to be carrying live thousand dollars in his 
pocket.” 

“It’s a kind of crime,” said Riddles. 
“I’m ashamed of it, and I didn’t intend 
for you to know it. But you see, I had to 
use that money to keep out of jail. After 
all it’s lucky I had it, otherwise we 
wouldn’t be enjoying this talk.” 

“It is said that you have been a bank 
robber,” the woman continued. “I am 
told that the man who wore those tramp 
clothes was a violent socialist and a dyna¬ 
miter. We have every reason to believe 
in you, but if you stay here we must know 
about you. Now that socialist who killed 
the man with a brick was known as Reuben 
Smith—there is said to be no doubt of that. 
I understand you to claim that the tramp’s 
clothes which were left on the river shore 

292 


RIDDLES 


were not the clothes which you had worn 
when you came there. Is that right ? ’ ’ 

“It is,” Riddles answered. 

“Do you know to whom they belonged?” 

“I would rather not answer that ques¬ 
tion just now,”' said Riddles, and purely 
out of consideration for Travers. 

Mrs. Martin rose from her chair. 

“Have you nothing more to say to us?” 
she asked. 

“At present, I've only this to say, I’m 
about as honest as men average, and if 
you’ll trust me a little while I’ll prove it 
to ye.” 

“We can not trust you any longer,” 
Mrs. Martin answered. “Reuben Smith, 
I shall have to ask you to go.” 

Miss Harriet rose and said, “Mother, 
no one can make me believe that Uncle 
Sam, Jr., is not an honest man.” 

“Miss Harriet, I thank you for your be¬ 
lief in me. Don’t let yourself be robbed 
of it. I have promised that, some day, you 

293 


RIDDLES 


shall know that I am as honest as I pre¬ 
tend to be. I ask you to wait until I am 
ready to tell you. If you let yourself be 
fooled by all this silly talk, you will never 
know the truth. Stick to your faith in me 
‘—no matter what they say.” 

Turning to Mrs. Martin he added, “I 
want to thank you both for all your kind¬ 
ness. I’ll never forget it. If you’ll please 
send me down to Coulterville, I’ll put on 
the farm suit an’ bid ye good-by.” 

“Keep the clothes you have on—they’ll 
be more comfortable,” said Mrs. Martin. 

“No, I’m goin’ just as I came,” Riddles 
insisted. 

“How much shall I pay you?” 

“Leave that to you. Only don’t make 
it too much.” 

Riddles left them to change his clothes. 

“I hate to see him go,” said Miss Har¬ 
riet while her mother was writing a check 
to the order of Reuben Smith. 

294 


RIDDLES 


“I don’t see what else we can do,” was 
her mother’s answer. 

When Riddles was going out of the door 
Mrs. Martin said, “We want to thank you 
for all you have done for us.” 

“I ain’t really had a chance to do much 
yet,” said Riddles. “I’d like to an’ maybe 
I can sometimes. We’ll see.” 

“It’s a shame that it should end this 
way,” said Miss Harriet. 

Riddles stood up straight and answered 
in his own fashion of speech: 

“It isn’t ended yet. I’m coming back 
with the young man and a certificate of 
good character.” With that he left the 
farm where he had had so many curious 
adventures. 

A mile out of the village the car that 
conveyed him was stopped by Bradshaw. 
The latter was in his new delivery truck. 

Riddles left the Martin car and got in 
with Bradshaw, who said: 

“I was going out to see you. There’s 

295 


RIDDLES 


a good deal of excitement in the village. 
All kinds of wild rumors are flying about 
and I have heard that they intend to arrest 
you again to-night. This time it will be 
for bank robbery. I thought you might be 
in need of help. What can I do?” 

“Thanks. Dm anxious to get home,” 
said Riddles. “Drive me across country 
to some town where I can buy clothes and 
hop into a motor-car. I’ve had enough of 
this hired-man game to hold me a while. 
How’s the store?” 

“Crowded to the doors all day. It’s 
going to be a godsend to this community. 
The profiteers are scared. Waters came 
to-day with a proposition to buy us out. 
I told him that he hadn’t money enough 
to buy us out.” 

“That’s right. Now, Bradshaw, don’t 
do any talking about me. On the day of 
the examination I’ll show up with some 
witnesses and prove an alibi, and at the 

296 


RIDDLES 


same time wipe out the bank-robber 
theory.’’ 

They drove to Williamstown where Rid¬ 
dles bought a ready-made suit and over¬ 
coat. Then, after supper, he hired a 
motor-car, and set out in the darkness for 
Belleharbor. 


CHAPTER FIVE 


> 


Riddles Out on Bail, Gets Home and 
Presently Returns for Examination 
With His Friend John Galt and Cre¬ 
dentials, and Learns of the Singular 
Plight of the Unsuspected Mr. J. 
Reginald Travers. He Goes to the 
Martin Farm in Purple and Fine 
Linen With His Friend, and Finds 
That Miss Harriet Has a Mind of Her 
Own—Very Like the One Under His 
Hat. 

T HE next day Riddles, clean-shaven 
and in a fashion of dress familiar to 
his friends, entered the office of the factory 
in Belleharbor. The men had returned to 
their work. 


298 


RIDDLES 


“What a change!” said Galt as he 
greeted the master of the works. “You 
look as fit as when you were captain of 
the football team years ago. Your skin 
has the hue of copper; your eyes are as 
bright as a boy’s.” 

“Yes—it’s your turn now,” Riddles an¬ 
swered. ‘ ‘ I see the men have come hack. ’ ’ 
“They had counted on a fight,” said 
Galt. “When they found that they had 
no one to fight with, they were disap¬ 
pointed. Suddenly the black pall of pro¬ 
hibition had fallen on the town. It was 
bone-dry. The gin-mills ceased to grind. 
They were filled with gloom, anger and 
profanity. Their proprietors decided to 
show the people what prohibition meant. 
The barrooms were dusty, unswept and 
dimly lighted. Most of their help had 
been discharged. Nothing but soft drinks 
at the bar. There wasn’t a ripple of ex¬ 
citement on the Bryany deep. The glow¬ 
ing lights, the polished mahogany, the 

299 


RIDDLES 


ruby gleams in glittering crystal, the 
merry toast, the songs of cheer had been 
followed by the silence and the solemn 
dusk of the tomb and the uninviting look 
and flavor of root beer and sarsaparilla. 

$ 

“The enthusiasm of the strikers lacked 
* the stimulation to which it had been accus¬ 
tomed. Home and near-beer and beef¬ 
steak could not long support it. At home 
the kids were bawling and the wife scold¬ 
ing more or less. The wife couldn’t strike. 
Her work had to go on. She was naturally 
irritated by her man and his friends loaf¬ 
ing about the place, and littering the 
floor, while they were waiting for their 
meals. They were in the way. Under 
these circumstances idleness became intol¬ 
erable. Soon a committee came to me with 
a perfectly sane and reasonable demand. 
We had no difficulty in reaching an agree¬ 
ment and the works were opened.” 

“I also have good news to report,” said 
Riddles. “I have found the girl. She is 

300 


RIDDLES 


a wonder—good-hearted, witty, modest, 
beautiful and gifted with common sense.’’ 

“And you didn’t make love to her?” 

“I couldn’t, even if I had a mind to 
turn traitor.” 

“Why not?” 

“That’s a long story and I haven’t time 
to go into it now. I’ve been playing fool, 
and some day I’ll confess the details.” 

Within a day a letter from Henry Brad¬ 
shaw notified Mr. Riddles that their attor¬ 
ney had secured an adjournment of the 
examination for one month, as its date 
interfered with the holiday plans of the 
prosecuting officer. 

It was late in August when Riddles set 
out for Coulterville in his big, new limou¬ 
sine with three guests: Galt, the mayor of 
Belleharbor, and the president of the First 
National Bank of the flourishing city. 
On the way he told them the story of his 
adventurous holiday. It was often inter¬ 
rupted by merry laughter. In that village 

301 


RIDDLES 


up in the hills of New England, Eiddles 
introduced himself and his friends to the 
prosecuting attorney. The three guests 
made themselves at home in the latter’s 
office. 

“I am the late Reuben Smith,” said Rid¬ 
dles when they were seated, “and I am here 
to prove my innocence of all the crimes 
and misdemeanors with which I am 
charged.” 

“Here are papers which will prove his 
identity,” said the mayor of Belleharbor 
as he passed sundry documents to the 
smiling prosecutor. 

The latter examined them hurriedly, 
arose from his chair and said politely: 

“Mr. Riddles, if these gentlemen will 
excuse us for half an hour or so, I should 
like to talk with you in my private office . 9 9 

The two retired to an inner room. The 
attorney closed its door, and placed a chair 
close to his own for Riddles. 

“I am glad you have come,” he began 

302 


RIDDLES 


with a smile. “I am in disgrace with the 
political leaders of this county and you are 
in a degree responsible for it. Therefore, 
I feel that I have a right to all the help you, 
can give me. I’ve got to square myself 
with old David Galt or go down to pos¬ 
terity as a failure. He calls me a bum 
prosecutor. Here are the facts as I have 
them: You were walking on the state road 
from the west on or about the seventeenth 
of June. You rode with a pedler to a 
point on the river shore known as Pine 
Grove. There you left him for rest. While 
you were resting a tramp came along. 
You had a talk with him. He interested 
you in his welfare to such an extent, that 
you bought a farm suit from the pedler 
on his return from Hope Center, and gave 
the clothes off your back to the tramp. 
They were good clothes and fitted him. It 
was a singular act and a blow to law and 
order in this county. It enabled a criminal 
to get away. He was a well-set-up man of 

303 


RIDDLES 


about your own build. He had been 
bathed and shaved and shorn. He prob¬ 
ably looked like a gentleman. I presume 
you loaned him money. The tramp left 
and probably got a ride out of this part of 
the country with some passing tourist. 
You, seeking exercise and new adventures, 
had assumed the dress and manners of a 
hired man and the name of Reuben Smith. 
What 1 should like to know is this. How 
did you chance to take the name of Reuben 
Smith?” 

“The tramp suggested it,” said Riddles. 

“Was he a friend of yours?” 

“No, he was no friend of mine.” 

“Did you not think this strange?” 

“No.” 

“Then he was a clever man!” the attor¬ 
ney exclaimed with a laugh. “It had been 
the name under which he had committed 
a serious crime. Now before you had left 
the grove, Mr. J. Reginald Travers—a 
wealthy Englishman—walking for his 

304 


5 


RIDDLES 

health, came along and got acquainted with 
you. Then both joined a picnic party from 
which you went home with the Martins, 
and he went with Mrs. Pulsifer and the 
Comings. Now, I have a question to ask. 
Have you any further knowledge of the 
tramp you befriended? Have you seen 
him or heard from him since the seven¬ 
teenth of June?” 

‘‘ That question I shall not answer unless 
I am compelled to,” Riddles replied. 

“Then we shall put you under oath,” 
said the attorney. “Surely, you do not 
wish to defeat the processes of justice.” 

“No, but if you knew the man as well as 
I do, I am inclined to think that you would 
not wish to disgrace and punish him even 
if it were possible.” 

“Still, that is a matter for me to de¬ 
cide,” the attorney insisted. “The ex¬ 
amination will come on to-morrow. Then, 
of course, you will have to tell the truth. 
Meanwhile, you had better let me know 

305 


RIDDLES 

what is coming. It will be easier for all 
of us.” 

“I am in a rather embarrassing position. 
Give me a few hours in which to think it 
over,” said Riddles. 

“Only give me your word that you will 
appear at the justice’s office at ten in the 
morning. It would delay and embarrass 
us if you were to leave the state.” 

“I give you my word for that,” said 
Riddles. 

“Your word is sufficient. Some of us 
know you pretty well here. If the people 
of this town knew you as well as I do, they 
would be strewing roses in your path. 
And, by the way, our leading citizen—Mr. 
David Galt—is giving a dinner to-night at 
the Country Club to his new brother-in- 
law, Mr. J. Reginald Travers—a man, you 
know, who is highly esteemed here. I 
have the matter in charge, and I am sure 
that I shall be expressing his wishes when 
I ask you and your friends to that dinner.” 

306 


RIDDLES 


“I think I can speak for my friends and 
tell yon that we shall be glad to join your 
party,” Riddles answered. 

That morning Riddles and his superin¬ 
tendent, Mr. John Galt, left their friends 
at the inn and rode out to the Martin farm. 

“I was never quite so excited in my 
life,” said Galt. 

“You may well be,” Riddles answered. 
“You are going to meet the sweetest girl 
in America—bad luck to you! ’ * 

4 4 1 appreciate your kindness—old man , 9 9 
said Galt. 

“I hate it,” said Riddles. “I’ll recom¬ 
mend you; but remember, if she turns you 
down it’s me for the breach.” 

There was the house. As they turned 
in at the familiar gate, Riddles felt a thrill 
that brought the color to his face. His 
thoughts were as busy as swallows before 
a rain. He was not now and would never 
be again the drawling, whiskered, illiterate 
Uncle Sam, Jr. He was in purple and 

307 


RIDDLES 


fine linen with the urbane manners of 
Kiddles of Belleharbor. The big, silent, 
glowing limousine with its silver mount¬ 
ings—so unlike the mud-stained “ Maggie 
toters” in which he had traveled that 
road—was the modern symbol of opu¬ 
lence. 

Harriet and her mother were cutting 
roses near the front door. The car stopped 
near them. They looked a little frightened 
in their morning frocks. Harriet dropped 
her roses and began to feel her hair. It 
could not have been more becomingly 
disarranged. A little strand of it loosed 
by the breeze flickered on her red cheek, 
and she was trying to catch it. 

“I’m glad to see you wearing that 
frock—I always liked it,” said Riddles as 
he got out of the car. “I am the late Reu¬ 
ben Smith, suspected of many crimes and 
guilty only of deceiving you with a foolish 
masquerade.” 

Miss Harriet looked at him for half a 

308 


RIDDLES 


moment while her cheeks grew redder. 
She stepped forward and gave him her 
hand with a merry smile, and with a pretty 
touch of dignity in her manner. 

“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “What 
a change! But you never deceived me. 
I knew that you were a gentleman. ” 

“And I owe many apologies,” said 
Mrs. Martin. 

“Being in your debt, the apologies 
should come from me,” Riddles answered. 
“I have brought a young man with me who 
wishes to meet your daughter.” Turning 
to Miss Harriet he added: “You have 
heard me speak of him. May I introduce 
my friend, Mr. John Galt?” 

“We shall be glad to meet him,” said 
the young lady. 

Mr. Galt stepped out of the car and was 
presented. Miss Harriet greeted him 
rather coolly. The party sat down on the 
veranda. 

“We have mutual friends,” Galt said 

309 


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to the young lady. “The Gordons of New 
York. I expected to meet you in their 
house last winter, but was called away. 
I have seen you, now and then, at St. 
Bartholomew’s. The last time I saw you 
was on the dock of the Cunard company. 
You were saying good-by to some friends.” 

“He never forgets a face worth remem¬ 
bering,” said Biddles. 

“Do we not all see faces in the crowd 
that passes us which we love to remem¬ 
ber?” Galt asked. 

“And soon or late, we see the one face 
that has the great light in it,” said Riddles. 
“Gee! I’ve slipped into poetry, but I can 
put a stop to that. I am going down to 
look at the pigs. They would put out the 
tire of a Tennyson. That’s what’s the 
matter with America—too many pigs! 
Too many antidotes for poetry! Maybe 
sometime, though, we’ll have a poetic hog- 
raiser. ’ ’ 


310 


RIDDLES 


‘ ‘ If yon don’1 mind, and mother and Mr. 
Galt will excuse us, I’ll go along with 
you,” said Miss Harriet. “I think a look 
at the pigs would do me good. ’ ’ 

They walked down a lane between two 
fields of rye. 

“I like this place,” said Kiddies. “I 
like the distant hills and the meadow 
flats and the fine old house and its inhabi¬ 
tants. It’s like the farm I was raised on.” 

“Some time I should like to see that 
farm,” said the young lady. 

“I’d like to show it to you. It’s not so 
far from here.” 

“We’re naturally interested in you, 
Smith—excuse me—I believe I am to call 
you Mr. Riddles hereafter—we have heard 
so many things about our hired man since 
he left.” 

“What have you heard?” 

“Oh, all about your wealth and public- 
spirit and general greatness. The world 
is little, and the prosecuting attorney was 

311 




RIDDLES 

on your trail. It’s all very strange and 
wonderful.” 

“It’s like seeing in the moonlight when 
every object takes on a look of grandeur. 
I warn you that I am a very small and 
foolish man. I have brought a real man 
with me. I have tried him out. He is 
wise and gentle and big-hearted. He fell 
in love with the look of you more than a 
year ago.” 

“Poor fellow! Somehow his look does 
not impress me,” said Miss Harriet. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps, it’s because 
he isn’t big enough and then—he’s too 
slow. ’ ’ 

“How? You’ve only known him for a 
quarter of an hour. Give him a chance.” 

“Well, you know, I’m only a girl; but 
if I saw a young man that I liked and 
knew where to find him, it wouldn’t take 
me a year to make his acquaintance. Not 
on your life.” 


312 


RIDDLES 


“But he has had a lot to do in the last 
year.” 

“And bad judgment as to the main 
issue. He doesn’t know what to neglect. 
He may be a good business man, but as a 
lover he is a joke. Thanks for your kind¬ 
ness, but I am disappointed. You have 
gone and brought the wrong man.” 

“What a riddle is a woman’s heart! I 
want you to ask him to dinner and really 
get acquainted before you form an opin- 
ion.” 

“It will do no good. Don’t worry about 
me. My plans are made.” 

“Perhaps you are already engaged?” 

“Not quite. But my mind is not like 
my hair this morning. It is made up. 
I know what I am going to do.” 

“Your hair never looked better. As to 
your mind, I’m going to reserve my judg¬ 
ment,” said Riddles. 

“In behalf of my hair, I say thanks,” 

313 


RIDDLES 


she answered. “ I am sure my mind never 
looked worse. It’s a disorderly and neg¬ 
lected mind with a lot of rubbish on the 
floor. I’m glad you can not see it.” 

“I am going to be very brave and ask 
you to open the door of your mind and 
give me a look at its plans.” 

“And I am going to be very ‘cagey,’ as 
you men like to put it, and tell you to wait 
and see. Can you come to dinner this 
evening, and—you may bring your friend 
if you care to?” 

“I am sorry. We are to dine with Mr. 
David Galt at the Country Club. He is 
paying a compliment to his new brother- 
in-law.” 

“Oh, then I will see you there. I had 
not quite decided to go. I think our time 
is up. They will be looking for us and 
we haven’t seen the pigs. On the whole, 
I think we had better not look at the pigs.” 

“That’s a noble thought! Let us re¬ 
main unsullied. Being a modern farmer, 

314 


RIDDLES 


your mother will think that we have been 
attacked by an infuriated pig.” 

Mrs. Martin and John Galt met them at 
the head of the lane. 

“We have good servants now and could 
not think of letting you go until after 
luncheon,” Mrs. Martin said to Riddles. 

“Besides you have treated us unfairly,” 
Miss Harriet added. “You have taken 
us by surprise, and here we are in our 
working clothes and you so immaculate— 
in spats and silk and lovely soft tweed and 
polished leather—and I with a stunning 
new morning suit in the closet which I 
have never worn. You simply can not go 
away until you have seen it.” 

“I long to see it,” said Riddles. “Be¬ 
sides I’m hungry. As to our unheralded 
arrival, what else would you expect from 
a rather sentimental hired man who was 
accustomed to seeing you in simple clothes, 

and who wanted to see you just as you 

315 



RIDDLES 


used to look. I thought of telephoning, 
but I didn’t know how.” 

“The hired man game doesn’t go with 
me any longer,” Miss Harriet said. 
“You’re forgiven on condition that you 
two will take a 'walk until we are ready. 
Don’t forget to show the pigs to Mr. Galt, 
and please don’t hurry him.” 

When the young men returned from 
their walk the ladies met them at the door. 

“Now we are trying to show a proper 
respect for our hired man,” said Miss 
Harriet. 

“It’s a beautiful gown. You couldn’t 
look lovelier.” 

“But my blood is drying up with sor¬ 
row,” the young lady answered. “The 
butler has left. Struck for more money, 
and when I refused it, he cleared out bag 
and baggage.” 

“Good! Here’s where I get back on my 
old job,” said Biddles as he rose from the 
table. “Please let me. I shall love it.” 

316 


RIDDLES 


So Riddles was permitted to bring the 
food from the pantry. He did it with a 
severe but kindly dignity; and would take 
no part in the talk until each course was 
served, and he had sat down at the table. 
He kept the party laughing with his play¬ 
ful humor, and finally “gave notice” that 
he would have to look for another place. 

“You are like all the butlers,” said Miss 
Harriet. “We pay you the price you ask 
and then you want more.” 

“I do not have privileges enough,” said 
Riddles with a laugh. 

“You may think better of that,” the 
young lady answered. “Monday we have 
what is called a ‘Take-It-Back Day’ in 
Coulterville. It will be a day for the 
righting of old wrongs—a day of ‘owning 
up’ and paying back and turning new 
leaves in the book of life. The Y. M. 
C. A. and the Christian Endeavor people 
have been working up a lot of surprises. 
The ceremonies are to be held in the park. 

317 


RIDDLES 


You will have a chance to see your errors 
and confess them.” 

“That’s too big a contract,” said Rid¬ 
dles. “It would take me a week to get 
through.” 

Near the middle of the afternoon the 
young men started for Coulterville. 

“She is all that I thought, but I can 
see that my case is hopeless,” said Galt 
as they were driving along. “I am like 
poor Standish. I sent the wrong ambassa¬ 
dor.” 

“Old man—honor bright!—I have tried 
to keep faith. I have done my best for 
you in spite of the fact that I am in love 
with the girl myself—a thing I couldn’t 
help.” 

“My friend, I have not a word of com¬ 
plaint,” Galt answered. “I would be the 
last man to blame you for falling in love 
with her, and, of course, you couldn’t help 
showing it.” 

“Galt, I’m going to make another play 

318 


RIDDLES 


for you. If it works, I’ll retire from the 
scene and leave you here. I’m rather 
resigned to the fate of a bachelor.’’ 

“I forbid it. I haven’t had time to get 
so hard hit as you are. You must go 
ahead. I am out of it.” 

“Don’t be hasty. I have slender faith 
in my chances. ’ ’ 

“Then I am sure you are blind,” Galt 
answered. “I can see that she loves you.” 

“Galt, we’re both fools about women,” 
said Riddles. “I don’t profess to be able 
to read ’em.” 


CHAPTER SIX 


The Affairs of Mr. J. Reginald Travers 
Come to a Sudden Dramatic Climax at a 
Public Reception and Dinner in His 
Honor Given by His Brother-in-Law, 
Political Boss of the County, to 
the Confusion of the Prosecuting 
Attorney. 

A RECEPTION to Mr. and Mrs. J. 
Reginald Travers will be given in 
the club parlors at 7:30; dinner at 8:15.” 
That legend was a footnote on the cards 
of invitation. When Riddles and his 
friends arrived at the Country Club the 
reception had begun. Office and corridors 
were crowded with the best people of that 
ample and fashionable countryside. Dia- 

320 


RIDDLES 


monds, pearls and emeralds glowed in 
the brilliant light on shapely necks and 
bosoms. Slowly, the Belleharbor men 
made their way into the crowded parlors. 
When Mr. John Riddles was announced in 
a rather loud voice at the door, the stately 
dames raised their lorgnettes, and many 
eyes directed their gaze upon him and 
many lips began moving in whispers. 

J. Reginald Travers was using his per¬ 
fect English on a group of adoring ladies. 
Mrs. Travers, groomed and powdered to 
the limit—to quote the phrase of Rid¬ 
dles—looked her age, which was near sixty. 
They turned from their talk as soon as 
Riddles was announced. 

“Deah friend!” said Travers as he took 
the hand of the mill owner. “It is, shall 
I say, thrilling that we should meet here as 
we do.” 

“And to think,” said Mrs. Travers, “we 
didn’t know we were entertaining an angel 
unawares . 9 y 


321 


RIDDLES 


“Madame, I don’t want to be an angel,” 
said Riddles. “For such promotion I am 
not quite prepared.” 

“You see our gratitude knows not where 
to set its limit ,’ 9 Travers interposed. “We 
love and admire you, deah Riddles, and 
may we not hope that you will accept the 
office of our friend and well-wisher?” 

“That will be easier,” said Riddles. 

“And before you leave here may we 
have you for, at least, a dinner at Cedar- 
fields?” Mrs. Travers asked. “I do so 
want to talk with you about certain of the 
mysteries of life. You know I was told 
by a fortune-teller that I would meet my 
husband unexpectedly, and that we should 
be married on the twenty-fourth of June. 
It all came to pass.” 

Riddles and his friends went on down 
the line. “I need a breath of fresh air,” 
said he to the Mayor of Belleharbor with 
a laugh as they emerged on the club 

veranda and lighted cigarettes. Riddles was 

322 


RIDDLES 


thinking how the fortune-teller and the 
sentimental old lady had had their stage 
set for the entrance of the fortune-hunter. 
On the veranda the Belleharbor men wit¬ 
nessed the arrival of Percival Waters with 
Harriet and Mrs. Martin. Riddles, hearing 
himself addressed, turned and was face to 
face with the prosecuting attorney, who 
apparently had been anxiously awaiting 
an opportunity for an interview. 

“I am glad to see you,” said the latter. 
‘ 6 Perhaps we had better have a little talk . 9 9 

“It will be necessary, I think, for you 
to be made acquainted with one important 
fact before you begin your examination 
to-morrow,” said Riddles. 

“And what is the fact?” 

“The man who killed Henry Taylor is 
here in this club-house.” 

“The radical—Reuben Smith?” 

“The same.” 

“Will you point him out to me?” 

“I will.” 


323 


RIDDLES 


“Excuse me for a moment or two.’* 

Before Biddles could stop him the attor¬ 
ney had hurried to the telephone, where 
for the next quarter of an hour he was 
trying to locate the chief of police and 
summon him to the Country Club. 

Meanwhile Biddles had met Harriet and 
her mother on the veranda, and had in¬ 
vited the former to step aside with him 
for a little talk. 

“I hope that you liked Mr. Galt on 
further acquaintance/* said Biddles. “I 
want to tell you that he is one of the ablest 
and finest men I know.” 

“If he cares for me I am sorry,” said 
Harriet. “I can not give him the least 
encouragement. You might as well know 
that I expect to marry Percival IVaters.” 

“It is a large undertaking!” 

“How so?” 

“You will meet so many obstacles. I 
think you will have something to take back 
on Monday.” 


324 


RIDDLES 


“Yes, an umbrella or two. We don’t 
know whom they belong to.” 

“And you’ll have to take back your 
intentions. I can not allow you to be 
turned into an island entirely surrounded 
by Waters. Unless you enjoy being lost, 
you are likely to be rescued. Perhaps, 
next time, I’ll show up with the right 
man. ’ ’ 

“I have no confidence in your judg¬ 
ment,” she answered. 

At that moment Percy arrived and was 
dumb with embarrassment, when Miss 
Harriet introduced Riddles as the late 
Reuben Smith. 

To his relief, Mrs. Martin came and 
announced that they were going in to 
dinner. 

As the ladies were entering the house 
with Percival Waters the prosecuting 
attorney came out. 

“I have been in communication with the 

325 


RIDDLES 


chief of police and he has just arrived,” 
said the latter. “Is Smith still here?” 

“Smith is still here, and I could have 
told you that you do not need an officer. 
He will make a clean breast of the matter.” 

Just then a young man came to the 
attorney and said that the whole party 
was waiting at the tables. 

“I suppose he is one of the waiters?” 
the attorney whispered. 

“He is one of the waiters,” said Rid¬ 
dles. “I’ll point him out to you in good 
time. Let the dinner proceed.” 

They entered the dining hall and found 
the people standing at the tables, and 
waiting for the prosecuting attorney, who 
was, it seemed, the toastmaster. Riddles 
found his seat on the dais at the left of that 
functionary; Mr. J. Reginald Travers 
being in the seat of honor between the 
toastmaster and Mr. David Galt. At the 
conclusion of the dinner the able attorney 
made an eloquent speech on the need of 

326 


RIDDLES 


better relations between England and 
America, leading deftly np to the new tie 
which had been established in “the mar¬ 
riage of an urbane, accomplished and de¬ 
lightful English gentleman to a lady of our 
own county. ” He then had the honor of 
introducing Mr. J. Reginald Travers. 

The response of Travers was notable 
for its wit, its gallantry, its modesty and 
its admirable good taste. 

Every one applauded and spoke a trib¬ 
ute of praise. The ladies did not fail to 
express their wonder that a man so attrac¬ 
tive had been willing to “throw himself 
away” on a “woman old enough to be his 
mother.” Mr. David Galt spoke briefly of 
his wise but firm attitude toward labor, 
and of his sturdy opposition to the grow¬ 
ing tendency to radicalism. 

John Riddles was introduced as one of 
the great captains of industry, and a real 
American, who has been studying local 
conditions, and “one of whose little side- 

327 


RIDDLES 


issues is The Eescue Mercantile Company 
of our town—an institution which has put 
every inhabitant of this county—except 
the profiteers—in his debt.” 

The applause lasted a full minute as 
Riddles arose. He said that this honor 
and applause had been unsought and un¬ 
expected ; that he hoped he would not 
seem to be lacking in grace and gratitude 
when he declared that it was also not quite 
welcome since it had put his motives under 
suspicion. He was glad to say that he 
thought Mr. Travers in every way worthy 
of the confidence and esteem of his neigh- 
bors. 

"While a quartet was singing, the attor¬ 
ney came to Riddles and asked: 

“Will you come with me for a moment?” 

Riddles accompanied the toastmaster to 
a point near the doors. 

“Is it not time for us to act?” he in¬ 
quired. “The waiters are getting impa- 

328 



RIDDLES 


tient. They have been detained in the 
service hall.” 

“Let them go,” said Riddles. “The man 
yon are to arrest is here —at the guest 
table.” 

“What!” exclaimed the prosecuting 
officer as his face grew damp with perspi¬ 
ration. “I thought you said he was one 
of the waiters.” 

“I meant that he was a member of the 
dinner-party who was waiting for you. It 
was an evasion, but I wanted the dinner 
to come otf just as it has without a cloud 
in your sky. I could have made it hard 
for you.” 

“In God’s name, who is Smith?” 

“I think he is none other than ‘the 
urbane, accomplished and delightful Eng¬ 
lish gentleman, Mr. Reginald Travers.’ ” 

The attorney dropped his cigarette, 
gasped and staggered a little so that Rid¬ 
dles caught his elbow to steady him. 

“In Heaven’s name! What am I to 

329 


RIDDLES 


do?” the lawyer muttered in a thick, 
tremulous whisper. “He is a brother-in- 
law of the boss, and a cousin by marriage 
of the county judge and the sheriff. What 
am I to do?” 

“Nothing—just nothing, but look wise 
and cheerful.” 

“That is what I will do.” 

“After all he may be innocent,” said 
Riddles. “He acts and talks like the real 
thing. A counterfeit man would be sure 
to slip a cog now and then. He doesn’t. 
So far as I know he rings true. He’s got 
me guessing. When I get a chance I’m 
going to ask him to tell me the truth.” 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


Which Presents the Developments of 
the Curious Festival of “ Take-It-Back 
Day,” in Which Miss Harriet Takes 
Back a Certain Resolution and John 
Riddles and J. Reginald Travers Each 
Opens the Door of His Spirit. 

“rpAKE-IT-BACK DAY” had arrived. 

A Posters had announced that, at the 
conclusion of the program, the Martin 
farm would be sold at auction. Riddles, 
whose friends had returned to Belleharbor, 
remained in Coulterville for that unique 
festival. He spent Sunday playing golf 
and in a long ride with David Galt, which 
had ended in a dinner-party at which the 
Martins were present. 

331 


RIDDLES 


‘ i To-morrow I expect to see you turn 
over a new leaf, and try to reform,” lie 
had said to Miss Harriet at the table. 
“You have much to take back.” 

“Too much for one to carry,” she an¬ 
nounced. 

“I’ll give you a hand if you will let 
me,” he suggested. “I shall drive out for 
you and your mother—if I may—right 
after luncheon.” 

The people from the village, and many 
from the country houses on the hills 
around it, assembled in the park that day. 
It was a curious affair. The fountain pool 
had been emptied and turned into a great 
booth tilled with garden tools and house¬ 
hold articles. People were “taking it 
back” and shaking hands in token of good 
will. Women who had said spiteful 
things of their neighbors were apologizing 
and being kissed. The names of sundry 
people were called from the big booth. On 
their coming forward envelopes containing 

332 


RIDDLES 


divers sums of money were given them 
from unknown sources. This was said to 
be conscience money coming back after 
many years with interest added. 

The most notable feature of this part of 
the program was the annuity of one thou¬ 
sand a year for life to Mrs. Henry Taylor 
of Connors, who was present to receive it. 
The Eeverend Mr. Wells announced that 
the gift was from Mr. and Mrs. J. Reginald 
Travers. Goods of any value which were 
unclaimed were to be sold at auction for 
the benefit of the Y. M. C. A. 

A local clergyman made a prayer and 
a speech and two children spoke pieces. 
Then Erastus Waters—the notorious prof¬ 
iteer—announced his intention of building 
a hospital for the village by way of giving 
back part of his earnings. Old Ab Risley 
—the village drunkard—enlivened the pro¬ 
ceedings with a new note. He declared 
that he had once said that Rat Waters 
was a rascal. He had been drunk when 

333 


RIDDLES 


he said it, and did not realize the injustice 
he was doing. He wished now to take it 
back and give him his full due. He was 
a damn rascal. How nice of him to build 
a hospital for those who were sick of his 
robberies! As to himself he would prefer 
a check. 

“Me an’ Rat Waters have done a lot 
for this town,” he added. “Now he has 
give it a hospital an’ I have give it an 
opinion.” 

When Risley had sat down, who should 
rise and go to the platform but Mary— 
the gray-haired woman in black whom 
Riddles had seen so often in the park those 
summer days. She was calm and self- 
possessed, and spoke with a pleasant smile 
in saying: 

“Many kind words have been said to me. 
Many things have been taken back. For 
these I am grateful. The money which 
has come to me here—from whom I can 
only guess—will help to purge my heart 

334 



RIDDLES 


of its bitterness. But no one can give back 
my youth or the good name it bore which 
was unjustly taken from me. Those who 
did it I have forgiven and now I seek 
only peace and the love of my neigh-* 
bors.” 

The auctioneer was a man of wit and 
imagination. He kept the crowd laughing 
with fanciful bits of history relating to the 
objects on sale. 

When at last the Martin farm was 
offered, Riddles thought it was done in 
terms not calculated to stimulate the 
desire to possess it. It was run down, the 
auctioneer declared, the buildings needed 
repair and the land some fertilizing, but 
it was a good farm with an exceptional 
view of the hills and river valley. What 
was he offered? 

Erastus Waters started the bidding. 

“Twenty thousand do liars ,’ 9 the auc¬ 
tioneer repeated. “Who will say twenty- 
five?” 


335 


RIDDLES 


Eiddles rose and said, “I will bid forty 
thousand.’ ’ 

‘ i Forty-five,''* Waters shouted with a 
scarlet face. 

“Sixty thousand ,’’ said Eiddles, and the 
sympathetic crowd began to applaud him. 

Half a moment of silence followed while 
the finger of the auctioneer pointed at Mr. 
Waters. 

“Sixty-five!” the latter shouted. 

“Seventy-five,” Eiddles rejoined. 

Waters turned toward his adversary. 
The notion had come to him rather sud¬ 
denly that he was really bidding for the 
hand of Harriet Martin for his son. Eid¬ 
dles ’s view of the situation was not quite 
so serious. He was really bidding to save 
the ladies from a sense of obligation to 
Waters, and to insure them a comfortable 
surplus above their debts. 

“Does the gentleman understand that 
this is a cash transaction?” Waters de¬ 
manded. 


336 


RIDDLES 


44 Perfectly ,’ 9 Riddles answered. 

44 Then I hid eighty thousand.” 

44 One hundred thousand,” was the bid 
of Riddles. 

4 4 One hundred thousand dollars,” 
solemnly repeated the auctioneer. 

Waters threw up his hands, shook his 
head and sat down. 

44 Backed oft the dump!” Ab Risley 
shouted amid laughter and applause, and 
John Riddles was declared to be the owner 
of the Martin farm. 

The prosecuting attorney came to him 
with congratulations. 

While they were talking they were inter¬ 
rupted by Erastus Waters. 

44 I have new evidence in the matter of 
the Connors murder,” he declared. 44 It 
involves this man and another. I am go¬ 
ing to demand a hearing before the grand 
jury.” 

44 I should advise you to take that back,” 
said Riddles. 44 I came here with peaceful 

337 


RIDDLES 


intentions, but I have evidence which 
would put your son in prison. The thing 
for you is peace; but if you want war I 
am prepared.” 

4 ‘Mr. Waters, I know all about this 
man,’ ’ said the prosecuting attorney. 4 4 He 
is right when he says that he could make 
you trouble. You had better not begin 
knocking anybody. As to the Connors 
case, I shall be glad to talk with you in 
my office, but I do not think that you have 
made any discovery which will be new to 
me.” 

44 Well, what’s the use of fighting any¬ 
how!” Waters exclaimed as he offered his 
hand. 

4 4 If we can not be friends we need not 
be enemies,” said Riddles. 

The latter finished his business with the 
auctioneer. As he was leaving the park 
with the ladies, he turned to Harriet 
Martin and said: 

“Now you are free to do as you like. 

338 


RIDDLES 


There is no string on yon. The sale gives 
you enough above your debts to confer a 
degree of independence. I hate to have 
you marry Percy, but if you really want 
to I shall give you some facts and then, if 
you persist, my blessing.’’ 

“To tell you the whole truth, I don’t 
want to,” she answered. 

“Then perhaps you would consider 
me?” 

“No,” she answered. “I would not 
consider you a minute.” 

“Why not?” 

“I would say yes very quickly.” 

“Thanks! I shall go home with you 
and there we shall attend to all the 
details.” 

“I had it in mind yesterday to make a 
historic suggestion,” said she. 

“What is that?” 

“Speak for yourself, John,” she an¬ 
swered with a laugh. 

While Harriet and her mother were 

339 


RIDDLES 


shopping, Eiddles met Mr. J. Reginald 
Travers. 

“Travers ,’’ said the mill owner, “I 
would like to know something of your 
past.” 

i ‘ Often I think that I know very little 
about it myself,” said Travers. “I do not 
mind telling you in confidence that I used 
to be an actor—a very good actor in Eng¬ 
land. I went to the w r ar and got rather 
careless with human life. I came out of it 
seeing red and drinking red. Came over 
here and went broke, and joined a labor 
union in the trade I had known as a boy. 
Now I am back on the stage again playing 
second lead in a really great part. I love 
it, but the performance is endless and there 
isn’t a brick or a red flag in the play so 
far. I’m rather glad. Curious how your 
sympathies change with your circum¬ 
stances.” 

Riddles looked into his eyes and under¬ 
stood. 


340 


RIDDLES 


“I hope yon are happy, 5 ’ he remarked. 

“Let me tell you a little story,’’ Travers 
proposed. “It is quite thrilling. I lived 
for a time in a dugout over in France. 
There were thirty-two steps in the stair¬ 
way that led down to it. On either side of 
the stairway were pockets in which bombs 
were kept. When an attack came we 
grabbed some bombs on our way up and 
at the top step were ready to meet the 
enemy. Each bomb had a pin on one 
side that discharged it. You gave the pin 
a shove and then you had to get rid of 
that little thunderbolt and quickly. Four 
seconds later it went off and tore itself and 
everything near it into bits. One day a 
fellow near the top of the stairs carelessly 
dropped a bomb. I, down in the dugout, 
saw it come hopping from step to step 
toward me. Would it strike the pin or not? 
That was the question. It didn’t. It 

rolled to my feet and stopped.” 

341 


RIDDLES 

“One couldn’t stand that every day,” 
said Riddles. 

“Unless one has to,” Travers laughed. 
“It’s a highly emotional part so far, but I 
have got along with it very well. Rather 
in my line, you know. Good-by, the 
madam is waiting. Thanks for all you 
have done.” 

Before leaving town Riddles went to 
say good-by to the prosecuting attorney. 
“My friend,” said the latter, “you were 
wrong. Travers did not kill Taylor. I 
have here the written confession of the 
man who did it. He w^as a friend of 
Travers who had fought at his side in 
France. He saved Travers’s life one 
night. Brought him into camp badly 
wounded under fire. Our friend took the 
Connors crime on himself as an act of 
gratitude. The confession is supported by 
the affidavit of an eye-witness.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 
Riddles asked. 


342 


RIDDLES 


“The guilty man will be punished but 
not severely. I learn that while the brick 
may have hastened the death of Taylor it 
was not the direct cause of it. He had 
an incurable disease from which he had 
long suffered.” 

“Well it occurs to me that there are few 
who can play the part of a gentleman 
more successfully than J. Eeginald Trav¬ 
ers,” said Riddles. 


THE END 





















JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD’S 

STORIES OF ADVENTURE 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list. 

THE RIVER’S END ~ 

A story of the Royal Mounted Police. 

THE GOLDEN SNARE 
Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland. 

' NOMADS OF THE NORTH 

The story of a bear-cub and a dog. 

KAZAN 

The tale of a “quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky” torn 
between the call of the human and his wild mate. 

BAREE, SON OF KAZAN 

The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part 
he played in the lives of a man and a woman. 

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM 

The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his 
battle with Captain Plum. 

THE DANGER TRAIL 

A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North. 

THE HUNTED WOMAN 

A tale of a great fight in the “ valley of gold ” for a woman. 

THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH 

The story of Fort o’ God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness 
is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France. 

THE GRIZZLY KING 

The story of Thor, the big grizzly. 

ISOBEL 

A love story of the Far North. 

THE WOLF HUNTERS 

A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness. 

THE GOLD HUNTERS 

The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds. 

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONE 

Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women. 

BACK TO GOD’S COUNTRY 

A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made 
from this book. 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 




































STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY 

GEN E STRATTON-PORTER 

Way be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grcsset and Dunlap’s list 



THE HARVESTER. 


LADDIE, 

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with th* 
scenes laid in Indiana. The story is told 
by Little Sister, the youngest member a 
a large family, but it is concerned not sr> 
much with childish doings as with the love 
affairs of older members of the family. 
Chief among them is that of Laddie, the 
older brother whom Little Sister adores, 
and the Princess, an English girl who has 
come to live in the neighborhood and about 
whose family there hangs a mystery. 
There is a wedding midway in the book 
and a double wedding at the cloise. 

Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 


“The Harvester,” David Langston, is a man of the woods and 
fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother 
Nature herself. If the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure 
of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his 
“Medicine Woods,” and the Harvester’s whole being realizes that 
this is the highest point of life which has come to him—there begins 
a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. 

FRECKLES, Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way hi 
which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the 
gjcat Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets 
him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and hit 
^ove-story with “The Angel” are full of real sentiment, 

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLO ST. 

illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovabV 
type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and 
iundness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the 
Sheer beauty of he T soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from 
barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage, 

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. 

■. - -* -— — ■ ■■ , i.— . ■ 

^lustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. 

- The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indian* 
The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing) 
ove. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting or 
latur®, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to alL 


Grosset & Dunlaf, Publishers, New York 


















































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